Dance of Death by Edward Marston

the newspaper on his desk. He was a tall, slim, immaculately dressed man with wavy grey hair and a twirling moustache.
    ‘You’ve seen the lunchtime edition, I take it.’
    ‘Yes, Sir Edward.’
    ‘The Zeppelin raid is on the front page.’
    ‘I was bewailing the fact earlier. Of far more concern to me is the public reaction to the shooting down of an aircraft. It’s induced a collective madness. People are descending on the crash site in thousands.’
    ‘It’s reprehensible, I know, but one can’t arrest mobs like that.’
    ‘The army should be deployed in larger numbers.’
    ‘They’re somewhat preoccupied by the small matter of a war,’ said the older man, drily. ‘Army and police alike lack resources for something on this scale.’
    ‘From what I hear, they’ve been fighting over souvenirs.’
    ‘A piece of a Zeppelin is a rare trophy for any collector.’
    ‘It shouldn’t be allowed, Sir Edward.’
    ‘How can we stop it? Besides, souvenirs are not in themselves bad things. I have several of my own, as it happens. Oddly enough,’ said the commissioner, opening a drawer in his desk, ‘I came across one only this morning. It’s in the nature of an historic document now.’
    ‘What exactly is it?’
    ‘You can see for yourself, Superintendent.’
    Taking the notice from the drawer, he passed it over. Chatfield was quick to recognise its significance. Issued by the Great Western Railway, it was the timetable for a train journey made by His Royal Highness, the Archduke Ferdinand of Austria from Windsor and Eton to Paddington.
    ‘According to this,’ said Chatfield, ‘it took exactly thirty minutes.’
    ‘I can vouch for its punctuality because I had the privilege of being on the train at the time. It was one of the perquisites of office.’ He took the notice back and looked at it. ‘Friday, 21st November, 1913,’ he said, mournfully. ‘The poor man had less than a year to live.’
    ‘Given what later happened, that souvenir has great significance.’
    ‘I’d never dream of parting with it.’
    ‘What I’d enjoy,’ said Chatfield, fussily, ‘is a souvenir from Marmion about the current investigation. Why doesn’t he get in touch? What on earth is he doing ?’
    ‘He’s doing what he always does – patiently gathering evidence.’
    ‘Well, I wish he’d pass it on to me, Sir Edward.’
    ‘He’ll do so in due course, Superintendent. And when he does, you can tell him that I endorse his suggestion. He must, of course, operate from somewhere in Chingford. It would be foolish to have him popping back here all the time.’
    Chatfield spluttered. ‘But I like to question him face-to-face.’
    ‘The decision has been made. Please pass it on to the inspector.’ He put his souvenir away and closed the drawer. ‘Was there anything else?’
     
    Having started his shift early that morning, Denzil Parry went back home while most of London was still at work. He was surprised to see a car parked outside his house and even more surprised to find two men enjoying a cup of tea with his wife. When he learnt that they were from Scotland Yard, he was delighted. Once he had his own cup of tea, hetold his story. Having done so many times at work, he’d embellished it a great deal and had to be warned to restrict himself to the facts. Parry was a fleshy man in his fifties with a bald pate and a weather-beaten face. Like his wife, Megan, he had a sing-song Welsh accident.
    ‘Strong drink is the devil’s brew!’ he said with puritanical zeal. ‘That’s why I signed the pledge years ago. When I see a man stretched out on the pavement, more often than not he’s drunk. That’s what I thought when I tripped over the corpse. Then I tried to shake him awake and found my hand covered in blood.’
    ‘He came straight back in here to wash it off,’ said Megan, a roly-poly woman with a practical air about her. ‘I told him to go looking for Constable Bench.’
    ‘We’ve heard your version of events