Hardcastle's Frustration

by Graham Ison

  Striding into the reception area, the DDI eventually found a nurse who directed them to the matron’s office.

  ‘What’s her name, young lady?’ asked the DDI, pausing as he turned away.

  ‘Miss Morag McGregor,’ said the nurse in hushed tones, as if in awe of the great woman.

  ‘Have you ever noticed how often matrons are Scottish, Marriott?’ said Hardcastle, tapping lightly on the matron’s door.

  ‘Come!’ said a commanding voice from within.

  Hardcastle pushed open the door, doffing his bowler hat at the same time.

  ‘Yes?’ snapped the matron, peering at Hardcastle over a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. She was immaculately uniformed, with a pristine white apron and a cap that was set squarely on her head. Altogether she represented the picture of an austere and unforgiving disciplinarian.

  ‘We’re police officers, madam. I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’

  ‘Well, come in, man.’ The matron’s forbidding countenance softened into a smile as she swept off her pince-nez. ‘And tell me what I can do for you.’ She skirted her desk and offered a hand. ‘I’m Morag McGregor.’

  Hardcastle shook hands. ‘I’m conducting a murder enquiry, Matron, and I was hoping . . .’

  ‘Sit down, Inspector, and you too, Sergeant.’ The matron indicated a pair of hard-backed chairs in front of her desk. She lifted the fob watch that was attached to her apron by a black ribbon and peered at it. ‘Five o’clock. I dare say you gentlemen would not be averse to a wee dram, eh? We Scots swear by it . . . for medicinal purposes only, of course,’ she said, with a smile. And without waiting for a reply, she crossed to a cabinet and took out three tumblers and a bottle of Buchanan’s Black and White whisky. Hardcastle was surprised; as a Scotch drinker himself, he knew that it retailed for nigh-on six shillings.

  ‘Very kind, madam,’ he murmured. ‘Much appreciated.’

  The matron poured a substantial measure of whisky into each of the tumblers. ‘You’ll not be taking water, I presume.’ She posed the question in such a way as to brook no argument, and settled behind her desk once again. ‘Slàinte!’ she said, raising her glass.

  ‘Good health, ma’am,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Now then, Inspector . . .’ The matron placed her glass in the centre of her blotter. ‘Be so good as to tell me how I may help you.’

  Hardcastle explained about the murder of Ronald Parker and that his enquiries had led him to Kingston Infirmary in connection with a Wilfred Rudd who, he was given to understand, was working there as a porter.

  ‘It’s possible that there might be a matter of national security involved in my enquiry, madam,’ he continued, ‘so I’d be much obliged if you’d treat my enquiry in the strictest confidence.’

  ‘You’ve no worries on that score, Inspector,’ said Miss McGregor. ‘I served on the Western Front for two and a half years, which is where I developed a taste for whisky. And I know how to keep my mouth shut. Now, what is it you want to know about this man?’

  ‘As much as you can tell me,’ said Hardcastle, taking another sip of his Scotch.

  The matron struck a brass table bell on her desk and seconds later a young nurse appeared, bobbing in the doorway.

  ‘Forester, go to Mr Donaldson’s office and ask him to see me.’

  ‘Now, madam?’ asked Nurse Forester.

  ‘Yes at once, girl, and be quick,’ said the matron, with an impatient flourish of her hand.

  It appeared to Hardcastle that Matron McGregor reigned supreme over the entire infirmary, a view that was confirmed minutes later when Mr Donaldson appeared in her office. His head was slightly bowed, and he was clasping his hands together in an almost supplicating manner.

  ‘You wished to see me, Matron?’ he asked, blinking through his spectacles.

  ‘These gentlemen are police officers, Mr Donaldson,’ said the matron. ‘They’re making routine enquiries about all the porters at this hospital.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Donaldson, nodding briefly in the detectives’ direction and fluttering his hands. ‘I’ll need to fetch their records from my office, Matron.’

  ‘Then, kindly do so, Mr Donaldson.’ There was an edge of irritability in Miss McGregor’s voice. ‘And I should caution you, Mr Donaldson, that this enquiry is secret. It must not reach the ears of anyone else in the infirmary, no one at all. Is that understood?’

  ‘Indeed, Matron.’ Donaldson tweaked nervously at his moustache, and scurried away to get the appropriate dockets.

  ‘I thought it best not to let Donaldson know which particular porter you were interested in, Inspector,’ said the matron, once her door was closed behind the retreating functionary. ‘This place is full of busybodies and tittle-tattlers. A drop more?’ she asked, picking up the whisky bottle.

  ‘Most kind, madam,’ murmured Hardcastle, who by now was also in awe of the authority the matron wielded.

  Miss McGregor had no sooner refilled the detectives’ glasses than Donaldson reappeared clutching a sheaf of slim folders. He glanced at the whisky bottle, but was not offered any. Hardcastle noticed, however, that the matron was making no secret of the fact that she was imbibing. Doubtless, she was secure in the knowledge that if any word of it got round the infirmary there would be trouble for whoever had gossiped. Assuming, of course, that she was concerned about whether anyone knew that she enjoyed a tipple.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Donaldson.’ The matron held out her hand and Donaldson meekly handed over the bundle of folders. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve finished with them.’ She waved a hand of dismissal, and began to sort through the porters’ dockets. ‘Ah, here we are: Wilfred Rudd. He joined the staff as a porter about nine months ago, on the sixteenth of July 1917 to be precise. He was discharged from the army as unfit for active service on the twenty-ninth of June 1917.’

  ‘Does it say which regiment he was with, madam?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘According to this he served with the Dorsetshire Regiment, but was gassed at the Somme. After a period in a base hospital, he was discharged from the army, as I said earlier.’

  ‘Did Rudd produce any documents to support these claims of his, madam?’ asked Hardcastle, who was always suspicious of an account of military service that had no documentary proof.

  ‘It doesn’t say so here, Inspector,’ said the matron, looking up from the docket she was reading, ‘but we tend to take the word of discharged soldiers. I know old soldiers, believe me, and I know a scrimshanker when I see one, and Rudd is not.’ As it turned out, however, she was wrong in that assumption. ‘It’s hard enough for them to find employment without being interrogated about their war experiences. It’s not only the physical wounds that have affected them, you see.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Hardcastle stood up. ‘Well, thank you for your assistance, madam, and thank you also for the whisky, most welcome. Oh, one other thing: do you have an address for Rudd?’

  The matron glanced at the file. ‘According to this, he resides at number seventeen Queen’s Road. It says here that he occupies a bed-sitting room there.’ She looked up. ‘I take it that you don’t wish to interview Rudd, Inspector.’

  ‘No, madam, not at this stage, and certainly not here.’

  ‘Is he a suspect in this murder of yours?’

  ‘Not as far as I can see,’ said Hardcastle, not wishing to tell the matron that he was, in fact, a strong suspect. ‘But we have to look into the background of everyone whose name crops up in the course of our enquiries. And then we eliminate them, one by one.’

  ‘Somewhat like a medical diagnosis, I suppose,’ said the matron with a chuckle. ‘One has to eliminate all the probabilities until only the possible remains.’ She stood up and accompanied the detectives to the door of her office. ‘Don’t hesitate to call again if you think I can assist you any further,’ she added, as she shook hands with Hardcastle and Marriott.

  ‘We need to speak to the mi
litary about this fellow Rudd, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, the following morning. ‘A word with Colonel Frobisher, I think, and there’s no time like the present.’ He put on his Chesterfield, and seized his hat and umbrella.

  The two detectives walked the short distance down Whitehall to Horse Guards Arch where, as so often happened, the dismounted sentry mistook Hardcastle for an army officer in mufti. He came to attention with a crash of his left foot, and raised his sword in salute at the sight of the DDI’s bowler hat.

  Although not entitled to such a compliment, Hardcastle nevertheless solemnly doffed his hat in acknowledgement. ‘Wouldn’t want to embarrass the poor fellow,’ he muttered.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ said Sergeant Glover, the APM’s clerk. ‘You’ll be wishing to see the colonel, no doubt.’

  ‘Is he here, Sergeant Glover?’

  ‘Indeed, Inspector. He’s always here early, and he’s not all that busy. I’ll show you in.’ Glover knocked on the APM’s door. ‘Inspector Hardcastle, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Good day to you, Inspector.’ Lieutenant Colonel Frobisher rose from behind his desk. ‘It’s not a social visit, I take it,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eye. The APM knew perfectly well that the only occasion when Hardcastle called on him was to present him with some military problem that was usually difficult to solve. He was fairly sure that today would be no different.

  ‘Good morning, Colonel.’ Hardcastle and Marriott accepted Frobisher’s invitation to sit down. ‘I’m dealing with a murder, and the name of a former soldier has cropped up in the course of my enquiries.’

  ‘Let me have the man’s details, then.’ With a sense that he was about to be faced with a time-consuming task, Frobisher drew a writing pad across his desk.

  ‘Marriott.’ Hardcastle glanced at his sergeant.

  ‘His name’s Wilfred Rudd, Colonel,’ began Marriott, opening his pocket book. ‘We’ve been told that he served with the Dorsetshire Regiment on the Somme where he was gassed. After a period in a base hospital, he claims to have been discharged as unfit for further active service on the twenty-ninth of June last year. He’s now employed as a hospital porter at the Kingston Infirmary.’

  Frobisher finished making notes, put down his pen and looked up. ‘And I suppose you want me to confirm this for you, Inspector.’

  ‘If it’s at all possible, Colonel, yes,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘It may take more than a day or two,’ said Frobisher. ‘I’m afraid the records of wounded take some time to filter through to the War House, particularly since the disaster of the Somme. There’s a whole army of clerks dealing with nothing else but the consequences of that battle. There were so many casualties, you know.’

  ‘So I understand,’ said the DDI. In common with most people, he knew that by nightfall on the first day of the battle fifty-eight thousand had fallen, a third of whom were dead, and the carnage had not lessened by much since.

  ‘Had this Rudd been killed in action, of course, there would’ve been a record of the notification sent to his next of kin. And that would’ve been done within a matter of days following his death. However, I’ll do what I can. Is he a suspect in this murder of yours, Inspector?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Hardcastle cryptically. ‘Thank you, Colonel.’

  ‘What now, sir?’ asked Marriott, as they left Horse Guards.

  ‘And now, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, ‘we’ll have to get a move on if we’re to get to the cemetery in time for Ronald Parker’s funeral.’ He hailed a cab and ordered the driver to take them to Waterloo railway station.

  NINE

  When Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at Kingston Cemetery in Bonner Hill Road, they remained in their taxi. Hardcastle was not concerned about how much the fare would cost the Commissioner, but not wanting to be seen attending Parker’s funeral, he deemed it a necessary expense.

  At a quarter past eleven precisely, a glass-sided hearse, drawn by two black horses, turned into the cemetery. Led by a top-hatted funeral director on foot, it made its way slowly up the road towards the chapel, passing under an archway topped by a lofty spire. Following the hearse on foot was a small group of mourners, among them, Hardcastle noticed, were Mavis Parker, her brother-in-law Harold, a woman he presumed was Harold’s wife, and Mrs Middleton, the Parkers’ next-door neighbour.

  ‘Not much of a turnout, sir,’ said Marriott.

  ‘Didn’t expect many,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘And there’s Mr Harvey, the gas company manager, sir,’ continued Marriott, ‘and George Quilter from Sopwith Aviation.’ He nodded towards two soberly dressed men who were in conversation as they followed the main body of mourners.

  ‘To be expected, I suppose,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Come to pay their respects.’

  ‘But that’s a surprise,’ exclaimed Marriott. ‘Look, sir, it’s Daisy Benson, all tarted up.’

  Although the late Ronald Parker’s paramour was dressed in black from head to foot, complete with veil, her outfit did not disguise her attractive figure. She was walking slowly up the road towards the chapel, well behind the main party.

  ‘I’m surprised she’s got the nerve to turn up, Marriott.’

  ‘Perhaps Ronald Parker was a bit more than just a client, sir. She might really have cared for him.’

  ‘You going to be much longer, guv’nor?’ asked the cab driver, turning in his seat and sliding back the glass partition.

  ‘As long as it takes,’ barked Hardcastle. ‘Anyway, you’re getting paid, and handsomely at that.’

  In fact, it was another thirty minutes before Parker’s coffin appeared from the chapel borne by half a dozen pall-bearers. After the usual obsequies it was lowered into a grave and the gravediggers began their task of filling in the pit.

  Slowly, the mourners began to drift away towards the main gates.

  ‘Well, that’s that, I suppose,’ said Hardcastle.

  Last to emerge from the cemetery, and still maintaining a discreet distance from the main party, came Daisy Benson. But instead of following the others, she turned left. A little further up the road, she stepped into a Hispano-Suiza tourer, taking the seat beside the driver. Leaning across, she lifted her veil, embraced the man and kissed him.

  ‘That’s one expensive motor car, sir,’ said Marriott.

  ‘Yes, it is and I want to know where it’s going,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Follow that car, driver.’

  The cab driver turned in his seat. ‘You some sort of copper, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m a Scotland Yard detective,’ said Hardcastle, never averse to assuming such importance. ‘Now, get going.’

  ‘Blimey, guv’nor, right you are,’ said the cabbie, and set off in pursuit of the vehicle carrying its unknown driver and Daisy Benson.

  Twenty minutes later, the Hispano-Suiza came to rest in the driveway of a large house called The Beeches on Kingston Hill. Daisy and the man alighted and went into the house, arm in arm.

  ‘How very interesting,’ said Hardcastle, and addressing himself to the taxi driver, said, ‘Kingston railway station, cabbie.’

  The reply to the query about Wilfred Rudd that Hardcastle had lodged with the military police came much quicker than either Hardcastle or Frobisher had expected. At three o’clock that same afternoon, the DDI received a telephone call from Sergeant Glover to say that the APM had some important information for him.

  Hardcastle and Marriott hurried back to Horse Guards and were shown into Frobisher’s office immediately.

  ‘Are you sure that you have the correct details of this man Rudd, Inspector?’ asked the APM.

  ‘The matron at the infirmary sent for the man’s personal records, Colonel.’

  ‘I see.’ Frobisher brushed briefly at his moustache. ‘According to army records, Inspector, your man Rudd is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ exclaimed Hardcastle. Everyone I’m interested in is turning up dead, he thought, remembering that Daisy Benson’s husband had also died. But he dismissed that fact as one
of life’s inevitabilities, considering that there was a war on.

  Frobisher opened a docket that was in the centre of his desk. ‘Private Wilfred Rudd, regimental number 14923 of the Dorsetshire Regiment was killed in action on the twenty-ninth of June 1917. He was one of a raiding party that was sent out in an attempt to capture one of the enemy.’ The APM glanced up. ‘It’s something that is done from time to time, Inspector. A captured German soldier can often prove to be a very useful source of intelligence regarding the disposition of the enemy’s forces.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Hardcastle, who did not really understand the finer points of military strategy and tactics. ‘But the matron was adamant that the details were correct.’

  ‘Did she have any documentary proof that this man calling himself Rudd had served in the Dorsetshire Regiment?’

  ‘Apparently not, Colonel. The authorities relied on the man’s own statement. A bit slipshod in my view, but there it is.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Frobisher tapped the docket with a forefinger. ‘Mrs Molly Rudd, Wilfred Rudd’s wife, was informed of her husband’s death by War Office telegram on the fourth of July 1917.’

  ‘Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs,’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘I wonder what the bugger’s up to.’

  Frobisher smiled. ‘There’s an outside chance I might be able to help you there, Mr Hardcastle. On the day that Rudd was killed, a Private Eric Donnelly, a member of the same three-man raiding party, was reported missing believed killed. His body was not found, you see, although the bodies of Rudd and the third man were. That fact created some uncertainty about it and it was thought that Donnelly might’ve taken the opportunity, in the confusion of battle, to make himself scarce. It may be, therefore, that the man calling himself Rudd is in fact Donnelly and that he assumed Rudd’s identity in order to desert.’

  ‘I suppose it’s a possibility,’ muttered Hardcastle, furious that he had wasted so much time on a deserter. Not that that precluded Rudd from his list of suspects for the murder of Ronald Parker. If anything, now that it was known that the real Rudd was dead, it moved the bogus Rudd higher up that list.