It was not often that Joe Keedy was caught off balance. Where the opposite sex was concerned, he’d always flattered himself that he could cope with any situation which arose. If anything, his engagement to Alice Marmion had strengthened his emotional fortifications and brought a welcome stability to his private life. Yet the revelation that he’d aroused the admiration of Millie Duxford had taken him unawares and he’d been made to feel very uncomfortable. As he sat alone in his office, he reflected on what had happened. He now understood why his visitor had taken such pains with her appearance. Delivering the photographs was her main reason for coming to Scotland Yard but there’d been a secondary purpose. She wanted to see him again and turn what had so far been a purely official relationship into a real friendship.
Keedy was honest with himself. When he’d recovered from the initial embarrassment, there had been a fleeting temptation. Millie was an attractive woman with her clothes on and, as he’d inadvertently discovered, even more attractive with them off. In earlier days, he might have wanted to develop a friendship with her but two things held him back. The first was his commitment to Alice, a decision that had brought him nothing but pleasure and a sense of fulfilment. Regardless of how appealing she was when naked, no woman could entice him away from Alice even for a brief dalliance. Keedy had turned over a decisive new leaf. His transgressions were in the past. He was deeply in love with Alice and that had enabled him to ward off Millie Duxford.
The other strike against the model was the macabre situation in which she’d first expressed her interest in him. They’d been in a police morgue at the time. When she’d gone through the harrowing process of identifying a best friend, the last thing she should have been thinking about was the handsome detective sergeant standing right next to her. Yet she’d not only pretended to faint, she’d clung onto him when she seemed to be recovering. Keedy knew from his experience as an undertaker that loss could have extraordinary effects on bereaved relatives. Millie was not the first woman he’d had to catch when a shroud was pulled back from a face. One man had had such a violent heart attack when viewing the corpse of his wife that Keedy’s father had been compelled to arrange two funerals instead of one. What had never happened before, however, was that a young woman had taken advantage of such fraught circumstances to fling herself into his arms. While Millie’s grief was undoubtedly genuine, it was clearly fringed with desire.
Since he was troubled by the incident, he felt the need to discuss it with someone else if only to laugh it off and flush it out of his mind. The obvious person was a close colleague but it was hardly a topic he could broach with his future father-in-law. In matters like this, Marmion could be very old-fashioned and he wouldn’t be pleased to hear that Keedy was the recipient of an amorous approach from a woman he’d only met once. Whatever happened, Millie’s declaration of interest had to be kept from the inspector.
Keedy’s meditations were soon interrupted by the arrival of company.
‘Sorry to leave you on your own, Joe,’ said Marmion, striding into the room. ‘Chats with Chat seem to get longer and longer.’
‘What did he think of the autopsy report?’
‘The same as me – parts of it need to be suppressed.’
‘I’d agree with that, Harv.’ Keedy handed over the photograph. ‘We’ve got a photo of Olive Arden at last.’
‘Good.’ Marmion examined it. ‘Isn’t that her friend, Miss Duxford?’
‘Yes, it was Millie – Miss Duxford – who dropped it off here. She had some other photos but this was the best for our purposes.’
‘You saw her, then?’
‘She left not long ago.’
‘How is she bearing up?’
‘She’s very resilient,’ said Keedy with feeling.
‘It’s a strange way to make a living – taking your clothes off, I mean. I’d hate to have a group of art students staring at me.’
Keedy chuckled. ‘I’m not sure that you’d qualify somehow, Harv.’
‘Don’t they use male nudes?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Well, I suppose you could call it an honourable profession. Women have posed in the nude for the greatest artists in the world. Some people – Chat, for instance – would say that it was a form of prostitution but I don’t think so,’ said Marmion. ‘Artists’ models are not taking money for sexual favours.’
Anxious to get off the subject, Keedy moved the conversation elsewhere.
‘What did the Superintendent have to say?’
‘He became very religious when he discovered that intercourse had taken place between Olive Arden and her killer. It may not have been in the park, of course. It could have occurred before they even got there. But,’ Marmion continued, ‘some sort of sexual encounter took place behind those bushes and that was enough for Chat. I had to listen to details of his courtship.’
‘That must have been exciting!’
‘It took him four and a half years to pop the question.’
Keedy laughed. ‘I’m surprised he was that quick.’
‘A little more respect, please! I know that we mock him but, underneath all that pomposity and Roman Catholicism, he’s a good detective. He came up with a suggestion that you and I should have thought of, Joe.’
‘And what was it?’
‘Do you remember the name that the killer gave to Olive Arden?’
‘Yes,’ said Keedy. ‘It was Lionel, supposedly working in the art department of an auction house. That was a name he plucked out of the air to trick her into believing that he had a respectable job.’
‘Chat’s argument is that he didn’t pluck it out of the air.’
‘I don’t follow, Harv.’
‘What happened when you ran Lionel Narraway to ground?’
‘We ended up with red faces,’ admitted Keedy. ‘Actually, the person with the reddest face was Terry Jellings. When he realised the kind of man we’d just talked to, his face turned the colour of beetroot. He’s never come across two men living together in a close relationship. Meeting Mr Narraway and his friend was a revelation to him.’
‘I daresay that this Lionel chap was embarrassed to be confronted.’
‘Yes, but he was also hopping mad.’
‘It could have been the killer’s intention,’ said Marmion. ‘That was Chat’s suggestion, anyway. The fact is that there was a man called Lionel and he did work for an auction house.’
Keedy pondered. ‘I see what the superintendent was getting at,’ he said at length. ‘Having given the name to Olive, the killer could count on her passing it on to a friend who would, in turn, mention it to us. We would follow up the lead and there would be a very humiliating moment for Lionel Narraway.’
‘In other words, the killer doesn’t like him.’
‘I can’t exactly say that I took to him either, Harv.’
‘Well, you’re going to have to see him again, I’m afraid. If the killer knows Lionel Narraway then the reverse applies. The art expert – without realising it – must know the killer.’
‘It’s a possibility but I’d put it no higher than that.’
‘When evidence is thin on the ground,’ said Marmion, ‘we have to grasp every possibility that comes along and this is one of them. Lionel Narraway must be asked if he has any enemies.’
‘He does,’ said Keedy. ‘I’m one of them.’
‘Be serious, Joe. Someone could be settling an old score with him.’ He sensed disagreement. ‘You obviously have doubts about that.’
‘Not at all – it’s a logical supposition and Chat deserves a pat on the back for pointing us in the right direction. The problem lies with Mr Narraway. I’ve met him before, remember. Gentlemen of that ilk are extremely discreet. For legal reasons, they have to be. Yes, he’ll have enemies – we all do – but we may never get him to divulge their names.’
‘We will if we apply gentle pressure.’
‘All right – though I can’t say that I’m looking forward to a second meeting with him.’
Marmion grinned. ‘Don’t worry, Joe. I’ll be there to hold your hand.’
‘My fear is that Lionel Narraway might try to do the same thing.’
They’d been misled. Paul Marmion knew that now. The week-long barrage was supposed to have destroyed German entrenchments, inflicted huge losses on the enemy’s manpower, cleared away the miles of barbed wire laid to ensnare the British troops and made the result of the battle of the Somme a foregone conclusion. The plan had failed disastrously. German fortifications were too strong and deep to be removed by shellfire, enemy losses had not been significant and the barbed wire had remained to trip, snag, sting, hamper and draw blood from soldiers like Paul Marmion and Colin Fryatt. Both had their battle scars but the most painful were not on their bodies. As they crouched side by side in the trench, Fryatt sought solace in his mouth organ. Halfway through ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’, he broke off and turned to his friend.
‘Promise me one thing, Paul.’
‘What’s that?
‘Stay close,’ said Fryatt. ‘If we’re going to die, let’s do it together.’
A morning spent with her daughter had been a real tonic for Ellen Marmion. While she’d bought only a few small items there, the visit to the West End had cheered her up a great deal. Ellen was reassured to see that big stores and small shops alike were open for business. In some cases, stock was limited because of the difficulty of getting imported goods but that didn’t lessen her pleasure. The main bonus – apart from time spent with Alice – was that she’d found the ideal present that Marmion could buy her for her birthday, thus depriving him of his annual panic.
When she left the tube station, her walk home would have taken her down the street where Lena Belton lived but she was keen to avoid a chance meeting with the woman. She therefore made a detour, adding a couple of hundred yards to the journey but sparing her the unpleasantness of another confrontation. Part of her felt ashamed that she had to resort to such a device. It smacked of cowardice. But another part of her argued that she was right to take sensible precautions. If a problem could not be solved, it was better to walk around it and pretend that it was not there.
Unhappily, the diversion did not take her safely past danger. As she came around a corner, she was jolted by the sight of Lena Belton, coming out of the greengrocer’s shop with a bag in her hand. Ellen’s immediate thought was that she was now condemned to say something to the woman, if only to make a vacuous comment about the weather. In the event, however, she was not called upon to speak at all. Patently, Lena Belton believed that actions spoke louder than words. Turning on her heel, she walked off in the opposite direction and disappeared down a street to the left. Ellen was torn between relief and annoyance, glad that no argument had taken place but exasperated by the other woman’s behaviour. It was difficult to feel sorry for Lena now. She’d used up all of Ellen’s compassion. The fortunes of war had turned a friend into an embittered neighbour with an evil tongue.
A thought suddenly hit Ellen and brought her to an abrupt halt. Is that what would inevitably happen to her? In the event of her son’s death, would she turn into a sour and unsociable hermit like Lena? Was that going to be her fate?
Ellen rushed home and let herself into the house. The first thing she did was to grab the newspaper and open it on the kitchen table. Then she went through the alphabetical list of dead soldiers to make sure once again that Paul Marmion’s name was not among them. Thankfully, it was not but her suffering was not over. When another list of the fallen arrived in the newspaper next day, her searing pain would start all over again.
Lionel Narraway kept them waiting. They had no idea if it was deliberate or not but they were left alone in his office for the best part of ten minutes. They used the time to look at the plush environment in which he worked. It was impeccably tidy. Every book was in place, every painting hung with care. There was also a wonderful balance of colour and Keedy was reminded of the house where Narraway lived. It had the same subtle shades. Marmion was impressed by the amount of money on display. The paintings were by talented artists and he knew how expensive the books of colour reproductions were. On the desk was a facsimile edition of Très Riches Heures de Duc de Berry, a book of hours produced early in the fifteenth century. He could not resist opening a page and looking at a beautiful illuminated manuscript.
‘What is it, Harv?’ asked Keedy.
‘It’s a Christian devotional book. Around the illustrations are texts from the Bible.’
‘We’ll have to buy a copy for Chat.’
‘Not on the money we get paid, Joe.’
‘What sort of wage will Narraway be on?’
‘I fancy that he’d call it a salary,’ said Marmion, ‘and it would make our eyes water with envy.’ He closed the book. ‘The art world is a wealthy one.’
He heard someone coming down the corridor outside and stepped away from the desk. The door opened and Lionel Narraway came in. As soon as he saw Keedy, he tensed. Marmion sought to make him relax a little.
‘Before we go any further, Mr Narraway,’ he said, smoothly, ‘we need to give you an apology. I’m Inspector Marmion and I was distressed to hear that one of my officers caused you any upset. It was not intentional and I’ve brought Sergeant Keedy with me so that he can express his regret.’
‘That’s right,’ said Keedy, solemnly. ‘I’m very sorry, sir.’
‘It all arose from a misunderstanding.’
Narraway was only partially appeased. ‘It was very unpleasant, Inspector.’
‘Unfortunately,’ explained Marmion, ‘we’re dealing with a very unpleasant situation. I daresay you’ve seen reports in the newspaper of the two murders. What happened was this.’
Marmion was succinct. He told Narraway how the killer had told his second victim the name that had led them to the auction house. He emphasised that Narraway was not a suspect but that it seemed more than a coincidence that there was someone called Lionel who worked in the art department of an auction house.
‘It may be that the name and profession were not picked at random, sir.’
‘The killer knows you,’ added Keedy.
‘I don’t consort with murderers,’ said Narraway, peevishly. ‘I have a small but highly selective group of friends.’
‘We’re not talking about friends, sir. This man wanted to hurt you.’
‘Why should anyone want to do that?’
‘We’re hoping that you might tell us, sir. Is there anyone you’ve … offended in the past? It might be one of your former clients, for instance.’
‘What an absurd suggestion!’ said Narraway. ‘I’m always excessively polite to my clients. I have a good professional relationship with everyone who seeks my help.’
‘Think hard,’ urged Marmion.
‘I don’t need to, Inspector. There is nobody – full stop.’
‘Far be it from me to correct your grammar, sir, but let’s make it a semi-colon, shall we? When it’s first put to you in the blunt way that we’ve had to resort to, you probably find it impossible to remember every word of criticism levelled at you or every person who might – just might – have taken umbrage at something you did or unwittingly said.’
‘My answer remains the same, Inspector – there’s nobody.’
Keedy indicated a painting. ‘I assume that’s an original, sir.’
Narraway was scornful. ‘I’d never hang anything else in my office.’
‘Supposing – just for the sake of argument – that an art expert walked in here and told you that the painting was, in fact, a fake. How would you react?’
‘I’d tell him that he didn’t know his job and kick him straight out.’
‘What happens when you are the expert and you pick out a fake?’
‘I’m invariably right, Sergeant.’
‘And does that happen often?’
‘Not often, perhaps, but it does occur from time to time.’
‘If I paid a large amount of money for an original Gainsborough,’ said Marmion, ‘and you examined it and declared it a fake, I’d be very angry.’
‘Granted,’ said Narraway, ‘but you’d be angry with the dealer who sold it to you and not with me.’
‘If I was trying to sell it at auction – and I knew it was a fake – then the person I’d turn on would be the man who revealed that it was not an original. That would be you, sir. Fraudsters hate being exposed as fraudsters.’
‘My reputation goes before me, Inspector. Artists know better than to try to smuggle a forged painting past me. I’d soon find them out. It’s a game and they know that I’d win.’ He walked to the door and opened it. ‘I don’t wish to detain you from the search for this killer. Look elsewhere, gentlemen. You won’t find him in my address book or in my client list.’
‘Don’t be so certain about that,’ said Keedy.
‘Someone or some incident may have slipped your mind, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘We ask you to reflect on what we said.’
‘Good day to you, Inspector.’
‘We are investigating two heinous crimes, Mr Narraway, and it may be in your power to give us some significant assistance. You may claim that you don’t know this man but we believe that he knows you. Why else would he send the police to your door,’ asked Marmion, ‘unless he wanted to unsettle you?’
‘Goodbye, sir,’ said Keedy, going out.
‘You know where to find us,’ said Marmion following him.
Narraway shut the door firmly behind them before crossing to his desk. Inclined to dismiss the visit as an inconvenient distraction, Narraway stopped for a moment to think. Something stirred at the back of his mind. Crossing to the desk, he began to leaf his way slowly through his appointments diary.
Alice Marmion did not enjoy her first night shift. A persistent drizzle fell as she and Peggy Lassiter started their beat. Nocturnal bombing by Zeppelins had forced the capital to dim its lights appreciably so that it did not present an easy target. Areas felt to be especially vulnerable – those with munition factories, for instance – were subjected to a total blackout. The subdued lighting meant that Alice and her companion carried powerful torches. They were also accompanied by a uniformed constable. He offered them protection against rapacious drunks or angry servicemen on leave who took exception to the fact that the beam of a torch was shone on them when they were in flagrante with one of the city’s many prostitutes. The darkness hid the blushes on the cheeks of the two policewomen. Walking around central London at night was an education for both of them.
One young woman trawling for custom was furious when she was moved on by the trio. She responded with a mouthful of abuse before slinking away.
‘That was another French prostitute,’ said Peggy.
‘Actually,’ said Alice, ‘I think she was Belgian. That sounded like Flemish.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I used to belong to the Women’s Emergency Corps. We dealt with huge numbers of Belgian refugees.’
‘There are far too many of them,’ complained the tall, gangly PC Mike Searle, strolling along beside them. ‘Belgians are everywhere.’
‘We could hardly turn them away,’ said Alice.
‘I think that’s exactly what we should have done. We should have taken so many then said “Okay, that’s enough. Go somewhere else.” That’s my view.’
‘There was nowhere else.’
‘What about Ireland or Scandinavia or one of a dozen other countries?’
‘They don’t have the treaty obligation with Belgium that we have.’
‘Alice is right,’ said Peggy. ‘It was our duty to help them, PC Searle.’
‘It doesn’t mean that we should let them flood in the way they did. If we get any more Belgians,’ said Searle, ‘we’ll all end up speaking Flemish or Walloon.’ He grinned in the dark. ‘And by the way, you can call me “Mike”. The same goes for you, Alice. By the end of this shift, we’ll be good friends.’
Alice was uncertain about that. Searle had been pleasant company at first and they were glad that he was there to assert his authority during the confrontations that inevitably arose. But he’d clearly singled out Alice as the more attractive of the two policewomen and started to make suggestive remarks to her. She dealt with them by studiously ignoring his innuendoes. When their shift came to an end, however, he made his move. Putting an arm around her shoulder, he produced what he believed was a winning smile.
‘I’ve really enjoyed looking after you,’ he said, winking at her. ‘Both of us sign off now. Why don’t I see you safely back home?’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Joe Keedy, emerging from the shadows.
Searle squared up to him. ‘And who might you be?’ he demanded.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Keedy and I don’t like anyone pestering my fiancée. Please bear that in mind, Constable.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, sir,’ said Searle, backing away.
‘Good night.’
Keedy’s farewell was a brusque dismissal. Searle quickly vanished and Peggy Lassiter went into the building after him. When Alice had signed off, she and Keedy walked arm in arm through the drizzle.
‘Thank you so much, Joe,’ she said. ‘You came to my rescue.’
‘Has he been a nuisance?’
‘Well, he can shift his attention to Peggy Lassiter instead.’
‘Oh, I don’t think he’ll make any headway there. Peggy disliked him almost as much as I did.’
‘So this is what you get up to, is it?’ he teased. ‘When I’m not there, you arouse the interest of amorous constables.’
‘I didn’t do it deliberately.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t, Alice. And, in a sense, it makes us quits.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ve both been the target of unwanted admirers,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, in my case, you weren’t there to leap out and frighten Millie off.’
‘Who’s Millie?’
‘Millie Duxford – she’s the best friend of the second victim, Olive Arden. They met at the Slade.’
‘Oh, they’re both art students, are they?’
‘No, Millie is a model. She poses in the nude. That’s what she was doing when I first clapped eyes on her.’
‘Since when have you been looking at naked women?’ she demanded.
‘She wasn’t naked,’ he temporised, ‘she was nude.’
‘It comes to the same thing, Joe.’
‘Not if you’re an art student. Anyway, this lady seems to have taken to me. When she turned up at Scotland Yard this morning, she made that very clear.’
‘Did she have any clothes on at the time?’
He laughed. ‘Don’t be silly!’
‘Well, you can hardly expect me to be glad. You told PC Searle that you didn’t like anyone pestering your fiancée. I could say the same thing about you.’
‘She wasn’t exactly pestering me, Alice.’
‘Then what was she doing?’
‘Millie was … expressing an interest, that’s all.’
‘What – on the strength of knowing you for only a couple of days?’
Keedy smirked. ‘My charm has an instant effect.’
‘Then you shouldn’t be turning it on for the benefit of naked women.’
‘She was a nude model.’
‘And you were staring at her.’
‘I couldn’t help it. When I walked into the room, she was there. Look, I didn’t have to tell you about it. I hoped that we could have a good laugh together. Why are you being so narrow-minded all of a sudden?’
Alice looked away. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does,’ he said, turning her to face him. ‘I’ve never seen you in this mood before. What am I supposed to have done wrong?’
‘I don’t think you’re telling me the full story, Joe.’
‘Of course, I am.’
‘If this woman has shown an interest in you then you must have given her some encouragement.’
‘That’s not true at all.’
‘You did it without even realising it,’ she argued. ‘That’s why I’m upset. You gave the impression that you were … well, available.’
‘Then you must have done the same to that constable earlier on.’
‘I did nothing of the kind!’
‘He seemed to think that you did, Alice. What does it matter, anyway?’ he asked, pulling her close. ‘I can’t see what the argument is about. If I hadn’t popped up when I did, you’d have given Constable What’s-His-Name the cold shoulder and that’s exactly what I did to Millie Duxford. Neither of them is going to come between us, Alice.’ He kissed her. ‘Didn’t you want to see me tonight?’
‘Yes, Joe,’ she said, hugging him.
‘Then let’s have no more bickering, okay?’
It was her turn to initiate the kiss this time. Afterwards, she smiled at him.
‘Being in love can be so difficult at times, can’t it?’ she said.
They had attended a piano recital the previous evening, then gone on to the home of some friends. It was not until they were having breakfast next morning that Lionel Narraway was able to raise a topic that had been niggling him.
‘I had another visit from Sergeant Keedy yesterday,’ he said.
‘Why on earth is he still bothering you?’
‘The situation is more complicated than I imagined.’
‘I don’t see why,’ said Edwin Bonner, reaching for the marmalade. ‘It was a clear case of mistaken identity.’
‘It was and it wasn’t, Edwin.’
Narraway gave him a brief account of what had happened in his office on the previous day and explained that he’d found Inspector Marmion far more amenable than his sergeant. At the end of it all, Bonner shrugged.
‘It was just an unfortunate coincidence that the killer used your name.’
‘Was it?’
‘Yes, Lionel. You know it was. You have no enemies.’
‘There are none that I can think of, anyway.’
‘Then you can stop worrying about it.’
‘That’s what I’ve tried to do,’ said Narraway, ‘but the possibility – remote as it is – refuses to go away from my mind. I went through my appointment diaries for the last two years and, I have to admit, there were a few people whom I upset.’
‘You simply told them the truth about their worthless paintings, Lionel.’
‘One of them might have harboured a grudge.’
‘Do you honestly believe that anyone would murder an art student as an act of revenge against you? It’s risible.’
‘I agree,’ said Narraway, pouring some coffee, ‘but that isn’t what happened, Edwin. Why else should someone give my name and profession to the young woman he intended to kill? The chances were that she was bound to pass on the details – and so it proved. The next thing we know, the egregious Sergeant Keedy is banging on the door.’
‘Distance yourself from this whole business, Lionel.’
‘I wish that I could.’ He added milk and sugar to his coffee before stirring it. ‘Some clients have been very angry with me. The worst was that American who thought he owned a genuine Whistler.’
‘That was years ago,’ said Bonner, airily. ‘You haven’t been to America since the war started. Part of your job entails giving bad news and there are lots of people who were disappointed when your valuation of their paintings was considerably lower than their expectations. But that’s not a motive for two murders and a determination to involve you in the second of them as a putative suspect.’
‘You’re probably right, Edwin.’
‘Let the whole thing blow over. You’ll never have to see either of those detectives again.’
‘That’s true,’ said Narraway, confidently. ‘I won’t, will I?’
Harvey Marmion had his head in a copy of The Times when Joe Keedy came into the inspector’s office. He looked up at his visitor and shook his head.
‘Paul’s name is not in the list – thank God!’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Harv. Why don’t you ring Ellen and tell her?’
‘She insists on seeing it herself in print. As soon as the newsagent opened this morning, she was probably waiting on the doorstep.’
‘One thing is certain,’ said Keedy. ‘Judging by the reports that I’ve read, the battle of the Somme is going to last quite a while.’
‘It will,’ agreed Marmion, putting the newspaper aside. ‘That means terrible casualties on both sides. So far, I fear, the British army has had the bigger losses. It’s a bloodbath over there.’
‘You have my sympathy.’
‘Thanks, Joe.’
‘The worst thing is having no idea what’s going on in France. That’s what Alice told me, anyway.’
Marmion was surprised. ‘You’ve seen her?’
‘Since I worked late last night, I picked her up at midnight after her shift and saw her safely back to her digs.’
‘That was good of you.’
‘It was the only chance I had of seeing her.’
‘How is she?’
‘Alice was much happier on the day shift. But there was one advantage of starting much later. She and her mother were able to go shopping in the West End.’
‘So I heard. It was an expensive trip for me. I’ve been lined up to buy a handbag at Swan & Edgar.’
Keedy sniggered. ‘I didn’t know you carried a handbag, Harv.’
‘Ellen’s birthday is coming up soon,’ said Marmion. ‘That’s what she wants.’
‘Then you’re lucky that Alice didn’t take her to Harrods or to Selfridges. You’d have needed a mortgage to buy a handbag there.’
‘The best possible present for Ellen would be good news from Paul. We couldn’t put a price on that. It’s the best present for all the family.’
‘That includes me.’
‘Yes, Joe. When he was home on leave, Paul gave his blessing to the engagement. He used to joke that nobody would ever marry Alice because she was too opinionated. You destroyed that myth.’
‘I have to explode a few myths about me now,’ said Keedy, meaningfully. ‘Is Ellen still having some hassle from that neighbour of yours?’
‘Yes, Joe.’
‘Alice told me about an argument she had with Mrs Belton.’
‘Lena Belton is her own worst enemy. There are dozens of people willing to help her through the long period of mourning, but she’s erected a wall between her and them. Ellen has walked straight into it and bounced off.’
‘Is this woman still poking newspapers through the letter box?’
‘No, she’s stopped doing that. And Ellen has stopped offering her friendship and consolation. She’s trying to avoid Mrs Belton altogether. Ellen can’t bear to see that smile on the woman’s face again.’
‘What smile?’ asked Keedy.
‘It was more of a sly grin, apparently,’ said Marmion. ‘That woman is brimming with ill will. She actually wants Paul to be killed in action.’
The whistle sent them off once again. But it was not a referee’s whistle to signal the start of a football match in which they were playing. It was a command to send them running at the enemy across uneven ground. The noise of shellfire and gunfire was continuous. Paul Marmion did his best to catch up to Colin Fryatt but his friend stayed yards ahead of him. Then the rattle of a German machine gun was heard and Fryatt was hit with a hail of bullets that stopped him in his tracks, doubled him up in an unnatural position then made him slump forwards onto the ground. Letting out a cry of horror, Paul tossed his rifle aside and dived down beside his friend, cradling him in his arms and promising to carry him back to safety. But there was no time for Paul to move. A shell smashed into the ground not too far away and exploded with such ferocity that it sent debris flying in all directions. As he was hit from behind by an avalanche of earth, stone and shrapnel, Paul didn’t see the crater that was gouged out of the ground by the shell.
He’d plunged headlong into oblivion.