by Graham Ison
‘Yes, I do. I have the unhappy duty of telling her that her husband has been found dead.’
‘Good grief,’ said Quilter, but asked no further questions. Nevertheless, he could not help wondering whether this tragedy had anything to do with his previous conversations with the authorities about the woman. ‘Miss Douglas,’ he said, glancing at his secretary, ‘perhaps you’d be so good as to go down to the paint shop and bring Mrs Parker up here immediately.’
‘Yes, Mr Quilter.’
‘But don’t tell her why, or that the police wish to see her.’
‘No, Mr Quilter.’
‘What happened?’ Quilter asked, once Miss Douglas had departed on her errand.
‘Beyond saying that Ronald Parker’s body was found in the river at Westminster this morning, I can’t really say,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Did he commit suicide?’
‘We don’t think so, Mr Quilter,’ said Marriott, not wishing to divulge too much information about Parker’s suspicious death.
The woman who entered the office looked to be about thirty and was quite possibly attractive, but it was difficult to tell; she was clothed in rough trousers, a paint spattered smock overall and a mob cap beneath which her hair was completely hidden.
Hardcastle never ceased to find the sight of a woman wearing trousers distasteful, even though it was all too common among female workers these days. He reflected, yet again, that this damnable war was producing the most extraordinary changes in the life of the country. And not always for the better.
‘You wanted me, sir?’ Mavis Parker said to Quilter and then glanced apprehensively at the two policemen.
‘Yes, Mrs Parker. These two gentlemen are from the police and they wish to speak to you. You’d better sit down.’ Quilter glanced at his secretary. ‘Miss Douglas, if you’d be so good as to fetch that chair for Mrs Parker.’
Miss Douglas moved a chair closer to Hardcastle and Marriott, and Mrs Parker sat down.
‘Whatever is it?’ Mavis Parker had a worried look on her face, possibly thinking that she was in some kind of trouble, but it was an expression that the DDI subsequently discovered he had misinterpreted.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that I have bad news, Mrs Parker,’ Hardcastle began. It was the one task that policemen disliked the most. ‘Your husband was found dead this morning.’
‘Glory be!’ Mavis Parker put a hand to her mouth and blanched, and for a moment Hardcastle thought that she might fall from the chair in a faint.
The efficient Miss Douglas poured a glass of water from the carafe on Quilter’s desk and handed it to the woman.
Mavis Parker took a sip of water and returned the glass to Miss Douglas. ‘Did this happen in Holland?’ she asked, when she had partially recovered.
‘In Holland?’ It was the strangest reaction that Hardcastle had ever heard in response to the news of the death of a loved one. ‘Whatever makes you think that he died in Holland?’
‘It was where he was going, sir.’
‘But why? Why should he have gone to Holland?’
Mrs Parker stared guiltily at Hardcastle. ‘To avoid being called up for military service,’ she said, but she sounded unconvincing.
‘But how was your husband proposing to get to Holland, Mrs Parker?’ Hardcastle became immediately suspicious. He knew that the ferry service between Harwich and the Hook of Holland had been suspended as long ago as 1915, and he was now wondering whether this woman had had any involvement in her husband’s death. Set against that was her reaction; if it was not genuine, then Mrs Parker was a clever and convincing actress. But possibly a guilty one.
‘I don’t really know.’ Mrs Parker extracted a handkerchief from somewhere within her clothing and dabbed at her eyes. ‘He said something about going to one of the south coast ports in the hope that he could get a passage in one of the cargo vessels. I think he mentioned Harwich. Would that be right?’
‘When did he decide to do this?’ asked Marriott, without answering the woman’s question.
Mavis Parker switched her gaze to Hardcastle’s sergeant. ‘Last Thursday,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes again. ‘What happened to him?’
‘His body was found in the River Thames early this morning,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Did he fall from a ship, then?’
‘We are still trying to find out what happened.’ Hardcastle was not about to tell Ronald Parker’s widow that her late husband’s body had been shot in the head and was found tied up in a sugar sack. ‘You said just now that your husband was trying to avoid military service, Mrs Parker. But I’ve been given to understand from his employers that he suffered from severe breathlessness, possibly consumption or some chest complaint, I suppose. Surely that would have exempted him from military service.’
‘Yes, sir, that’s true. He wasn’t a well man and he’d been before a tribunal once before, but a couple of weeks ago he’d been called back for another examination. He was worried that this time they’d pass him fit. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go; he just thought that his health wouldn’t stand up to being in the trenches. One hears such terrible stories about what it’s like out there.’
‘So I believe.’ Hardcastle had witnessed some of the results of total war during his visit to the Belgian town of Poperinge eighteen months previously. He would never forget seeing badly wounded soldiers at the railway station, lying on stretchers in the open air, awaiting evacuation. ‘Well, I think that’s all, Mrs Parker. You have my sympathy,’ he muttered as a gruff afterthought; he was not good at expressing words of condolence.
‘You’d better take the rest of the day off, Mrs Parker,’ said Quilter. ‘In fact, take as much time as you need. I’ll get one of the other women to see you home.’ He glanced at his secretary. ‘Perhaps you’d arrange that, Miss Douglas.’
‘Yes, Mr Quilter,’ said his secretary.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Mavis Parker glanced at the works manager, but said nothing to Hardcastle.
‘I may need to see you again, Mrs Parker,’ said the DDI. ‘What time d’you normally finish work?’ He had been told by Martha Middleton, Mrs Parker’s neighbour, but as usual was confirming the information he had received.
‘Six o’clock, sir,’ said Mavis Parker.
‘A bad business, Inspector,’ said Quilter, once Mrs Parker had been escorted from the office by Miss Douglas. ‘D’you think he committed suicide?’
‘I have no idea at this stage, Mr Quilter,’ said Hardcastle, well knowing that it was murder.
‘What time is it, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle, when the two officers were back at the main gate of the factory.
‘A quarter past four, sir,’ said Marriott, wondering why the DDI had not looked at his own watch, but dismissed it as another of Hardcastle’s little perversities.
‘I see you’ve still got that wristwatch, Marriott. I’m surprised you haven’t knocked it off on something.’ Hardcastle, attached as he was to his half-hunter, could not understand the modern trend of wearing a watch attached to the wrist by a strap.
‘Yes, sir, and it keeps good time.’
‘So does mine,’ muttered Hardcastle, declining to become embroiled in a debate about the relative merits of watches. ‘What was the address on that letter that was found on Parker’s body?’
Marriott took out his pocket book and glanced at it. He had made notes of the letter, knowing that Hardcastle would, sooner or later, want to know the details.
‘Gordon Road, sir, and it was a woman called Daisy Benson who wrote the letter.’
‘So she did,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I wonder how far that is.’ He turned to the policeman standing guard. ‘Where’s Gordon Road, lad?’
‘Turn right into Queen Elizabeth Road, sir,’ said the PC, pointing off to his left, ‘then go under the railway bridge and it’s the first turning on the left. It’s not much of a stride, sir. Less than half a mile, I should think.’
It took the two detectives just under ten minute
s to find the address. The detached house was similar to the one in which the Parkers lived, except that Daisy Benson’s house had two windows on the upper floor and the door was on the front rather than at the side.
The woman who answered Hardcastle’s knock looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Attired in a dress that revealed a good twelve inches of well-turned ankles, she had dispensed with a chemisette thus displaying a rather daring décolletage.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ said the woman, carefully appraising the two officers. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any rooms vacant at present.’
‘We’re not here looking for accommodation, madam,’ said Hardcastle, ‘we’re police officers. Is your name Daisy Benson?’
‘Yes, it is.’ A look of concern crossed the woman’s face. ‘Oh my Lord, it’s not about my husband, is it?’
‘Your husband?’ queried Hardcastle.’
‘Yes, my Sidney’s a staff sergeant in the Army Ordnance Corps somewhere at the Front.’
‘No, it’s not about your husband, Mrs Benson.’ Hardcastle wondered why the woman had volunteered so much information so quickly. ‘We want to talk to you about Ronald Parker.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know anyone of that name.’
‘But you wrote him a letter,’ said Hardcastle tersely.
‘Oh, heavens!’ Daisy Benson glanced up and down the street.
‘You do know him, then,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Yes,’ said Daisy Benson, almost whispering her reply. ‘You’d better come in.’ Her mind was in turmoil as she wondered how the police could possibly know that she had written to Ronald Parker.
The parlour was a comfortable room furnished with easy chairs, a sofa and a diamond-patterned Axminster carpet that must have cost at least five pounds. Net curtains excluded the prying eyes of the outside world, and a fire burned cheerfully in the grate.
‘What’s all this about Ronnie?’ asked Mrs Benson, having invited the two detectives to take a seat. She sat down opposite them and carefully arranged her skirt.
‘His body was found in the River Thames this morning, near to Westminster Bridge,’ said Hardcastle bluntly.
‘Dead? Good grief, how awful.’ Mrs Benson’s hand went to her mouth as she absorbed the shock of the news. ‘But that’s terrible.’
‘Among his belongings was a letter from you in which, among other things, you expressed a desire to see him again soon. You suggested next Saturday afternoon would be a convenient time. From the date on your letter, I presume that referred to the Saturday just gone.’ Hardcastle sat back and waited to hear what Daisy Benson had to say about that.
‘Oh, how silly of him to have kept that letter.’ Daisy waved a hand in front of her face, clearly flustered. ‘I realized afterwards how silly of me it was to have written it.’
‘Yes,’ said Hardcastle. ‘His wife might’ve read it.’ He was already convinced that Daisy Benson and Ronald Parker had been having an affair.
‘What exactly was your relationship with Mr Parker?’ asked Marriott. ‘Are you a relative, his sister perhaps?’
Daisy Benson coloured slightly. ‘We were lovers,’ she said, once again lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and confirming Hardcastle’s view. ‘His wife didn’t understand him, you see, poor Ronnie.’
Hardcastle had heard that well-worn excuse for an affair many times before, but he declined to say as much. It was a familiar reason put forward by philandering husbands and adulterous wives as a fallacious excuse for their behaviour; nor was it the first time that a woman had so openly discussed her love life with him. ‘How long had this affair been going on, Mrs Benson?’
‘About a year, ever since my Sid got posted abroad. He was in Aldershot before that, but then they sent him to France,’ said Mrs Benson. ‘Well, it gets lonely for a girl when her husband’s away and . . .’ She allowed the sentence to lapse, but there was no need for her to elaborate; Hardcastle understood only too well what she meant.
‘Did Mr Parker say anything to you about going to Holland, Mrs Benson?’ Marriott asked.
‘To Holland?’ Daisy Benson emitted a girlish giggle. ‘Why on earth would he have wanted to go to Holland? It sounds a very dangerous thing to do, what with the war and everything. But no, he never said anything about going to Holland.’
‘We spoke to Mrs Parker less than an hour ago, and that’s what she told us,’ said Hardcastle. ‘She said something about Mr Parker having been interviewed by a medical tribunal recently and that he apparently feared being called up for the army.’
‘That’s nonsense. He’s not fit. He told me that he felt quite confident that they would reject him. He wasn’t in the least worried about it. In fact, they said they would write to him with the results, but he was fairly certain that it would be all right.’
‘You knew where he worked, I suppose.’
‘Of course. He was with the gas company in Horse Fair. That’s how I’m able to have a decent fire. Ronnie was able to wangle me some extra coal from time to time.’ Mrs Benson smiled guiltily.
‘How did you manage to arrange your meetings?’ asked Marriott. ‘Mr Parker was working six days a week, and Mrs Parker is a day worker at Sopwiths.’
‘Once a fortnight Ronnie would have a Saturday afternoon off, but Mavis would be working, of course. So we’d meet then. Mavis would even work on a Sunday occasionally, especially if they were particularly busy at the factory, and Ronnie would skip church and come to see me.’ Parker’s paramour was quite blatant about their arrangements.
‘Weren’t you afraid that the neighbours might talk?’ Hardcastle did not really care what they thought, but had posed the question out of idle curiosity.
‘I let rooms to commercial gentlemen,’ said Daisy. ‘The neighbours are quite used to seeing different men coming and going all the time.’
‘I see.’ Hardcastle had already formed an opinion about Mrs Benson’s commercial enterprise, but it differed from that which the woman was attempting to convey.
‘D’you think that Mrs Parker knew about your affair, Mrs Benson?’ asked Marriott.
‘Crikey, I should hope not.’ Daisy emitted another giggle. ‘I don’t think she’d’ve been too happy about it.’
‘I don’t suppose she would,’ commented Hardcastle drily. ‘But wasn’t there a danger that Mrs Parker might’ve seen the letter you wrote?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Daisy. ‘Ronnie told me that he always picked up the letters from the doormat.’
‘When did you last see Mr Parker?’ enquired Marriott.
‘A week ago last Saturday,’ said Daisy promptly. ‘It was one of those Saturdays when Ronnie had the afternoon off. And Mavis, of course, was at work painting her aeroplanes.’
‘Did Mr Parker seem to be in good spirits?’
‘Very much so.’ Daisy gave a coy smile. ‘You wouldn’t’ve thought that he was unfit for active service,’ she added, and giggled again.
‘But you had made an arrangement to meet again?’
‘He sort of suggested he might have an extra Saturday afternoon off which is why I wrote what I did in the letter. That was the day before yesterday, but he didn’t arrive and I assumed he’d had to work.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Benson,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott stood up. ‘We may have to see you again. I presume you’re here most of the time.’
‘Yes, I am.’ Daisy Benson briefly touched the back of her hair. ‘How did Ronnie die? Was he drowned?’
‘No, Mrs Benson,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We believe him to have been murdered.’
Daisy Benson’s mouth opened in shock. ‘Murdered? But why should anyone want to kill poor Ronnie?’
‘That is something I’m trying to find out, Mrs Benson.’
THREE
‘It seems that our Mr Parker was a bit of a Lothario, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle once the two detectives were back at Cannon Row police station. ‘What you might call a gas board Romeo.’ He chuckled at his feeble
joke.
‘I don’t really blame him, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘That Daisy Benson is a good-looking woman. Enough to turn any man’s head, I should think.’
‘Yes, and I wonder how many of her paying guests have benefited from her favours.’ Hardcastle scraped out his pipe and put it in his pocket before glancing at his watch. ‘I doubt that we can do much more tonight, Marriott. Take yourself off home; it might be the last early night we have before this case is closed. I’ve a feeling that it’s going to get complicated.’
‘Especially if Parker had more than one lady friend, sir,’ suggested Marriott.
‘Thank you for that helpful comment, Marriott. Go home before you depress me further. And my regards to Mrs Marriott.’
‘Thank you, sir, and mine to Mrs H.’
Once Marriott had left the station, Hardcastle settled down to deal with his accumulated paperwork. But first he read Police Orders, the daily publication that reported all that was happening, and going to happen, in the Metropolitan Police. He noted with a wry smile that a constable in one of the outer divisions had been dismissed after being found drunk and asleep in a wheelbarrow. Such a punishment carried with it the very real possibility that the man concerned would be called up for the army and finish up in the trenches.
At half past seven, he decided that he had done enough for one day, and donned his overcoat and bowler hat and seized his umbrella.
But before leaving the station, he looked into the front office. The station sergeant reported that all was correct.
‘Anything happened that’s likely to interest me, Skipper?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘A couple of your lads nicked a pickpocket at the guard change at Buck House this morning, sir, but apart from that, nothing.’
‘Who were they?’
The station sergeant referred to the charge book. ‘DCs Catto and Lipton, sir.’
‘They’re not trying hard enough.’ Hardcastle had an unfair view of Henry Catto’s abilities as a detective, but he was good at his job, and seemed only to appear uncertain of himself in the DDI’s presence. ‘They could do better than a couple of dips if they tried.’