Hardcastle's Frustration

by Graham Ison

  ‘Strange, him starting this late on a Thursday,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Yes, he does work odd hours,’ said Daisy lamely. ‘I s’pose it’s something to do with the war.’

  ‘However, I’ve not come here to talk about your lodgers, Mrs Benson,’ said Hardcastle, to Daisy’s obvious relief. ‘I was wondering if you could tell me anything more about the Parkers.’

  ‘Oh, poor, dear Ronnie, such a tragedy. Have you any idea who might have killed him, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m pretty certain that I know his murderer,’ said Hardcastle, much to Marriott’s surprise. He knew that the DDI had no idea who had killed Parker, but presumed he was playing another of his little games. Although to what end remained a mystery. ‘However, I was wondering if you could tell me a little more about Mavis Parker.’

  ‘I don’t know what there is to tell.’ Daisy Benson seemed more relaxed now that the DDI had moved away from his interest in her lodgers.

  ‘I have reason to believe that she and her husband didn’t get on too well,’ suggested Hardcastle.

  ‘I never met her, of course, but from what Ronnie told me, they didn’t enjoy the best of relationships. Like I said the last time you were here, she just didn’t understand him, poor soul. And her working at the aeroplane factory didn’t help matters, either.’

  ‘Strictly between ourselves, Mrs Benson,’ said Hardcastle, leaning forward, ‘d’you know if she was seeing someone else?’

  Marriott listened to this exchange with increasing amazement. He knew that Hardcastle often pursued a line of questioning that seemed to have no point, but he could not really follow what the DDI was hoping to achieve. From their enquiries of Mrs Middleton, and the manageress at the roller skating rink, it seemed quite apparent that Mavis Parker was not an innocent party in the marriage. Perhaps he thought that she had murdered her husband or, more likely, that some male acquaintance of hers had done so.

  ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that,’ said Daisy with a toss of her head.

  ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Benson,’ said Hardcastle, rising from his seat. ‘If you do happen to think of anything that might assist me, perhaps you’d telephone me. You do have a telephone, do you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Daisy, ‘it helps with the bookings.’

  ‘Yes, I imagine it makes life much easier for you,’ said Hardcastle drily. ‘Marriott, be so good as to give Mrs Benson the telephone number of the police station.’

  ‘Have Lipton and Catto left to find out where this here Gilbert Stroud lives, Marriott?’ Although Marriott was entirely trustworthy in his supervision of the detectives in his charge, it was in Hardcastle’s nature always to check that his orders had been carried out to his satisfaction.

  ‘Yes, sir, they left in time to take up the observation by half past five. I thought it best if they got there early just in case Stroud and Mrs Parker turned up together. Or, for that matter, Mortimer, although without a description they’ll be hard pressed to identify him.’

  ‘Quite right, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I was going to suggest an early start myself.’ He took out his hunter and checked the time, wound it briefly and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket. ‘Half past seven. I think we’ll take the opportunity of having an early night, Marriott.’ He put on his bowler hat and overcoat, and picked up his umbrella, checking that it was tightly furled. ‘My regards to Mrs Marriott.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, and mine to Mrs H.’

  SIX

  It was twenty past eight when Hardcastle arrived at his house in Kennington Road. The moment he closed his front door he heard the sounds of laughter, including that of a man, coming from the parlour. Although curious to discover the reason for the hilarity, he still made time to check the accuracy of the hall clock against his hunter.

  That done, he pushed open the parlour door to be confronted by his wife Alice, his twenty-year-old daughter Maud, and a young man in army lieutenant’s uniform. At the sight of Hardcastle, the soldier immediately leaped to his feet.

  ‘I’m glad you’re home, Ernie,’ said Alice. ‘You’re just in time to meet Maud’s young man before he takes her out to supper.’

  ‘Charles Spencer, sir.’ The young man took a pace towards Hardcastle and held out his hand.

  ‘How d’you do?’ said Hardcastle, carefully appraising the young man and pleased to note that he had a firm grip. ‘What regiment are you in?’ His eyes dropped to the ribbon of a Military Cross adorning the officer’s tunic. On the ribbon was a bronze oak leaf spray which, Hardcastle had learned, indicated a mention in dispatches. Clearly Spencer was a courageous soldier.

  ‘The Loyal Regiment, sir,’ said Spencer.

  ‘But aren’t all the regiments in the army loyal, Mr Spencer?’ Once again, Hardcastle found himself baffled by the complexities of the military.

  ‘Yes, sir, of course they are, but it’s the name especially given to the Eighty-First of Foot. That’s what the regiment was called in 1793, and it was taken from the motto of its first colonel. Although officially we’re the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment now. Loyal for short.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and are you from Lancashire?’

  Spencer grinned boyishly. ‘No, sir, I’m from Windsor as a matter of fact, but we don’t have any say in where we’re sent. I was in the Essex Regiment before I was commissioned.’

  ‘Do sit down, Mr Spencer. I have to say that I find the army a very confusing organization.’

  ‘So do I, sir, and I’m in it,’ said Spencer, with a self-deprecating laugh.

  ‘Has Maud given you a drink, Mr Spencer?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ said Maud, ‘and why don’t you call him Charles, Pa? I’m sure you don’t mind, Charles, do you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Spencer.

  ‘Well, I’m going to have a whisky,’ said Hardcastle. ‘What about you, Charles?’

  ‘A whisky would be fine, sir. Neat, if you please.’

  Hardcastle poured two measures of Scotch, and looked enquiringly at the womenfolk.

  ‘I’ll have a sherry, Ernie, and so will Maud, won’t you, dear?’ asked Alice, glancing at her daughter.

  ‘Yes, please, Pa,’ said Maud, who was still growing accustomed to being treated as an adult by her father.

  ‘I understand that you met Maud while you were in hospital, Charles.’ Having poured the women’s drinks, Hardcastle settled in his armchair.

  ‘Yes, sir. I copped a Blighty one in the leg at Cambrai at the end of last year. D’you know, sir, that the Canadians actually did a cavalry charge north of Masnières during that battle,’ continued Spencer, his face lighting up with enthusiasm. ‘The Fort Garry Horse rode down a German artillery battery with their sabres out. Put the fear of God into Fritz.’

  ‘Yes, I read that in the paper,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but I take it you’re quite recovered from your wounds now.’

  ‘Fit as a fiddle, sir.’

  ‘Is it bad over there? I mean worse than we read about.’

  ‘It’s bad enough, sir, but things are starting to move into the open now. I’d like to think we’ve seen the last of trench warfare, and I’ve got a feeling that the end will be in sight before much longer.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Hardcastle. ‘This damnable war has gone on far too long.’

  ‘Charles,’ said Maud, making a point of gesturing at the clock on the mantel, ‘it’s time we were going.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Spencer drained his whisky glass and stood up. ‘Jolly good to have you met you, sir,’ he said, proffering a hand once more.

  Hardcastle stood up and shook hands. ‘You take good care of my girl, Charles.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir, Maud’s very precious to me. She nursed me back to health.’ Spencer dashed into the hall and returned with Maud’s hat and coat. ‘Well, goodbye, sir, and thanks for the whisky,’ he said, buckling on his Sam Browne belt. He glanced in Alice’s direction. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Hardcastle.’

  ‘He seems a nice y
oung chap, Alice,’ said Hardcastle, once the door had closed behind Maud and Charles Spencer.

  ‘If things go on as they seem to be going, Ernie, I might just have to buy a new hat,’ said Alice Hardcastle.

  ‘Good grief?!’ exclaimed Hardcastle, taking his pipe from his mouth. ‘You don’t mean that—’

  ‘They’re very keen on each other, Ernie. A woman can always tell, you know.’

  ‘Good grief?!’ said Hardcastle again, and immediately tried to calculate how he would be able to afford a decent wedding for his daughter on a DDI’s pay of less than two hundred and thirty pounds a year.

  A policeman was standing in the entrance to Kingston railway station when Lipton and Catto emerged into Wood Street.

  ‘Any idea where Ceres Road is, mate?’ asked Catto.

  ‘I’m not your mate,’ said the PC tetchily, as he fingered his beard and glanced disparagingly at the two ‘civilians’ in front of him. ‘And I should’ve thought that two well set up young gents like you would be looking for the recruiting office in Kingston Hall Road.’

  ‘Well, we’re not. We’re in the Job,’ said Lipton. ‘But as we’re CID officers we don’t have time to stand about all day doing bugger all.’

  ‘Down there.’ The PC pointed down Wood Street and ambled away, mumbling to himself about what he perceived to be the comfortable life of a detective.

  ‘Bloody uniform carrier,’ muttered Lipton.

  The two detectives eventually found the roller skating rink, but undecided what to do next, stood on the opposite side of the road.

  ‘We can’t go in there and start asking questions,’ said Catto, ‘even though the guv’nor said we should. It’d mean showing out.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see how else we can find out which of the men going in there is . . . what’s his name, Henry?’

  ‘Stroud. Gilbert Stroud.’

  ‘What time is it?’ asked Lipton.

  ‘Time you bought a watch,’ said Catto, pulling out the Enigma watch he had bought from Selfridges last week for an outrageous four shillings and sixpence. ‘Ten minutes to six.’

  ‘And what time did the guv’nor say Stroud arrived?’

  ‘Usually about six, when he does come.’

  ‘Be just our luck for him not to turn up today, then we’ll be back here again tomorrow.’ Lipton thrust his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and stared moodily at the skating rink, visualizing an unending period of time spent in Kingston.

  ‘Well, I s’pose we’d better just hang about,’ said Catto.

  ‘This looks promising, Henry,’ said Lipton, a quarter an hour later, as he sighted a man striding towards the rink.

  Making his way purposefully along the opposite side of the road was a tall man in a raincoat and a brown trilby hat. He had a large moustache, similar to that of the late Lord Kitchener, and was swinging a pair of roller skates in his right hand.

  ‘Could be him, I suppose,’ said Catto doubtfully, ‘but on the other hand he looks like a dozen other men. After all, Gordon, most men have got moustaches, you and me included.’

  ‘Don’t let him see you’re looking at him, Henry,’ cautioned Lipton, as he put his hand on Catto’s shoulder and turned him, so that both of them appeared to be taking an interest in a shop window display. But Lipton was watching the man in the reflection afforded by the glass. ‘He’s gone in, Henry.’

  ‘Well, he would’ve done seeing as how he’s carrying skates.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘Wait, I suppose,’ said Catto.

  For just over an hour, the two detectives wandered up and down the deserted street, trying to appear inconspicuous. During that time, several groups of girls entered the rink, usually laughing among themselves. Two or three couples also went in, each girl holding the arm of her male companion, some of whom were in uniform.

  ‘We’re going to be here half the night at this rate,’ complained Lipton.

  At a quarter past seven, the man in the raincoat and the brown trilby emerged, carrying his skates.

  ‘D’you reckon that’s him, Gordon?’ asked Catto.

  ‘There’s one bloody way to find out,’ said Lipton, who disliked prolonged observation duty. Before Catto could stop him, he streaked across the road. ‘Blimey, if it’s not old Tom Pickford,’ he said, borrowing a surname he had seen on the side of a removal van. He seized the man’s right hand, and shook it vigorously. ‘God, I haven’t seen you in years, Tom, mate. What’ve you been doing with yourself? Taken up skating, I see.’ He nodded at the man’s skates. ‘Lord Derby not grabbed you for the Kate Carney?’

  ‘I think you must’ve made a mistake.’ The man was clearly thrown off guard by this sudden confrontation and made an admission he would not otherwise have done. ‘My name’s Gilbert Stroud.’

  Lipton relinquished the man’s hand, and took a pace back. ‘Crikey, mate, I’m terribly sorry,’ he said, ‘but you’re just like him. They say that everyone’s got a double somewhere in the world. Still, no harm done. Sorry an’ all that.’ He crossed back over the road and hurried to catch up with Catto who had wisely moved away so that the man would not see him.

  ‘It’s him, Henry,’ said Lipton breathlessly.

  ‘You were taking a hell of a chance, Gordon,’ complained Catto. ‘The guv’nor said that he mustn’t twig that he was being tailed. You might’ve blown it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, mate, he never saw you. He was too busy telling me that he was Gilbert Stroud. Now, as he knows me, the best thing is for you to follow him and I’ll bring up the rear.’

  Gilbert Stroud set off at a brisk pace along Wood Street. Turning into Clarence Street, he continued into London Road, past the police station, and eventually turned into Caversham Road. Catto maintained his watch on the man from a discreet distance until eventually his quarry let himself into a house. Waiting until the door had closed Catto walked swiftly past the house and noted the number. At the top of the street, he turned into Fairfield Road and waited until Lipton had caught up with him.

  ‘I don’t think the guv’nor will find too much to complain about with that, Henry.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure, Gordon,’ said Catto pessimistically.

  ‘It’s Friday morning already, Marriott, and we’re no further forward with this damned murder.’

  ‘No, sir.’ In fact, Marriott thought that they had made quite significant progress with what he called background enquiries. ‘But we do know that Ronald Parker was in a relationship with Daisy Benson, sir. And as she’s probably a prostitute, he might’ve paid her for his pleasure. We also know that Mavis Parker was not above meeting men at the skating rink. And Mrs Middleton thought that Mavis and her husband weren’t getting on too well.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, Marriott, but we still don’t know who murdered the man. And talking of Mavis Parker meeting men at the skating rink, have Catto and Lipton found out anything about this here Gilbert Stroud?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They’re in the office now.’

  ‘Well, fetch ’em in, Marriott, fetch ’em in,’ said Hardcastle impatiently.

  ‘You wanted us, sir?’ said Catto, as he and Lipton lined up in front of the DDI’s desk.

  ‘Of course I want you,’ barked Hardcastle. ‘Why haven’t you reported yet about your observation last evening?’

  ‘I thought you were busy, sir,’ muttered Catto.

  ‘I’m always busy. Now then, what happened?’

  ‘We followed Gilbert Stroud, sir, and—’

  ‘How did you know it was Stroud?’ demanded Hardcastle.

  ‘I spoke to him, sir,’ said Lipton.

  ‘You did what?’ roared the DDI.

  ‘Well, sir, we didn’t know if the man who’d come out of the skating rink was actually Stroud, so I went up to him and suggested he was an old friend of mine called Tom Pickford. But he said he wasn’t, and he told me that his name was Gilbert Stroud.’

  ‘My God, Marriott, I’ve never heard the like of it. If you’ve c
ompromised this business, Lipton, you’ll have me to answer to.’ Secretly, Hardcastle was quite impressed by Lipton’s initiative, but had no intention of telling him as much. It was the sort of ploy he might have used himself in his younger days, but now, as a DDI, he had to take a more responsible and overall view. ‘Anyway, what did you find out?’

  ‘We followed Stroud, sir,’ said Catto hesitantly, ‘and er—’

  ‘I should hope so. Spit it out, man. I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘No, sir. We followed him and he eventually entered a house in Caversham Road, Kingston, sir. I’ve written down the details and given them to Sergeant Marriott.’

  ‘And did you check the voters’ list?’

  ‘Er, no, sir. I thought—’

  ‘You should never think, Catto, you’re not equipped for it. Right, get about your duties, both of you.’

  ‘I told you he’d find fault, Gordon,’ whispered Catto as the two DCs returned to their office opposite the DDI’s.

  ‘What did you say, Catto?’ demanded Hardcastle.

  ‘Er, nothing, sir,’ replied Catto.

  ‘Well, Marriott, at least we know where this Stroud lives,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘I thought they did a good job, sir,’ said Marriott, who was always keen to defend his charges, especially Catto, when they had been successful.

  ‘I suppose so,’ admitted Hardcastle grudgingly. ‘I just hope they weren’t spotted.’

  ‘Do we pay him a visit, sir?’

  ‘Not yet, Marriott. I want to know a bit more about him first. I’ll put Wood on it. He’s good at keeping observation. Is he here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll fetch him in.’

  ‘Ah, Wood,’ said Hardcastle, when Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood appeared in his office. ‘I’ve got a job for you.’ He explained about Gilbert Stroud and his apparent association with Mavis Parker. ‘I want you to find out where this here Stroud works, Wood, but discreet mind.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Wood.

  ‘Start tomorrow morning.’

  ‘He might not work on a Saturday, sir.’

  ‘Everyone works on a Saturday, Wood,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but if he don’t, then you’ll have to take up the observation again on Monday.’