by Graham Ison
‘He sometimes put letters and bills in the drawer of the kitchen table,’ said Mavis. ‘I’ll go and have a look. Not that I think he ever got it, because I’m sure he would’ve told me if he had.’
‘Go with Mrs Parker, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, ‘in case she needs some help. She might not know what a letter from the Ministry looks like. And he might’ve put it anywhere. I’ve known of people hiding things in the strangest of places.’
Marriott had worked with Hardcastle for long enough to understand that the DDI wanted him to take his time, and to delay Mrs Parker’s return for as long as possible.
Once Marriott and Mrs Parker had left the room, Hardcastle began a quick search of the parlour. Being an experienced detective, he did not look in the most obvious places first. He examined the back of the pictures, the underside of the two occasional tables in the room, and finally lifted the top lid of the upright piano.
There, tucked in between a couple of the strings, he found an envelope marked ‘On His Majesty’s Service’. Carefully removing it with the tips of his fingers, he saw that it was addressed to Mr Ronald Parker and had already been opened. Inside the envelope was a letter which he imagined to be the original of the carbon copy he had been shown by Mr Makepeace, the official at the Ministry of National Service. But he did not remove the letter from the envelope, aware that it might bear the fingerprints of whoever had opened it. And that, according to Parker’s widow, was unlikely to have been Parker himself. But it might well have been his killer.
By the time that Mavis Parker and Marriott returned to the room, Hardcastle was, once again, seated on the sofa.
‘No luck, I’m afraid . . .’ began Mavis, but then paused as she saw the envelope that the DDI was holding between finger and thumb. ‘Oh, have you found it?’
‘Yes, I’ve found it, Mrs Parker.’
‘Where was it?’
‘Curiously enough, it was in the top of the piano.’
‘Whatever made you think of looking there, Inspector?’ said Mavis, avoiding the DDI’s gaze.
‘My old father always used to put things in the top of the piano,’ said Hardcastle, ‘particularly when he didn’t want anyone else to find them. But we all knew that that’s where he hid them, because when we played chopsticks on it, it sounded strange. He never found out that we knew though.’
‘How funny,’ said Mavis. ‘I’d never have thought of looking there.’ But her attempt at innocence was belied by the flush rising steadily from her neck. She held out her hand. ‘May I have it?’
‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Parker. You see it could be valuable evidence in the matter of your husband’s murder.’ Hardcastle put the letter in his inside jacket pocket. ‘I’ll let you have it back in due course.’
‘What sort of evidence?’ Mavis Parker was obviously loath to let the letter out of her possession.
‘I don’t know. I’m only a simple policeman, Mrs Parker,’ said Hardcastle blithely, ‘but our scientists like to have a look at these things. You’d be surprised what they can find out these days.’ In fact, it was his intention to hand the letter to Inspector Collins in the hope that there might be some useful fingerprints on it.
‘Oh, really?’ responded Mavis lamely.
‘How long have you known Wilfred Rudd?’ asked the DDI suddenly.
‘Who?’
‘Wilfred Rudd, the hospital porter.’
‘Oh, Wilfred.’ Mavis played for time. ‘Of course, but I think you’ve got that wrong. Mr Rudd is an army officer, or was. He told me that he’d been wounded and discharged from the army. He was in all the battles, you know. He told me he’d got the Military Cross.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, goodness, you don’t think he murdered my poor Ronald, do you?’
‘It’s a possibility I’m considering,’ said Hardcastle, although in the face of Detective Inspector Franklin’s findings that Rudd’s revolver was not the murder weapon, he had to admit that it was unlikely. He had also dismissed the likelihood that Rudd had acquired a second weapon; he did not for one moment think that he was that clever, and a search of his room at Queen’s Road had failed to find any other firearms.
‘But surely, I mean, being an officer . . .’
‘He was not an officer, Mrs Parker, he was a private soldier named Donnelly who had deserted in the face of the enemy and taken the identity of a dead comrade called Wilfred Rudd. He is now in military custody awaiting court martial, and will doubtless be shot at dawn.’
‘Oh no!’ Mavis paled and for a moment appeared to be on the point of swooning.
‘How did you meet him, Mrs Parker?’ asked Marriott.
‘At a dance at the Surbiton Assembly Rooms, about two months ago.’
‘And what did your husband think about that?’
‘He didn’t know,’ said Mavis quietly.
‘What did he think you were doing?’
‘Roller skating. I often went skating with some of the girls from Sopwiths.’
‘Is that where you met Gilbert Stroud?’
Mavis Parker raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘How did you know about him?’ she asked. That Hardcastle knew about Stroud clearly disconcerted her greatly.
‘We find out all sorts of things when we’re investigating a murder, Mrs Parker,’ put in Marriott. ‘It’s a very serious crime.’
‘Second only to treason,’ said Hardcastle mildly, ‘but the penalty is the same for each.’
But the DDI’s last comment seemed to have no great effect on Mrs Parker, and he wondered why.
‘What did you make of Mrs Parker, sir?’ asked Marriott, when he and Hardcastle were back at Cannon Row police station.
‘Either she knows nothing, or she’s in over her head, Marriott. But given that Stroud of MI5 is taking an interest in her, I rather think it’s the latter.’
‘So, what’s the next move, sir?’ Marriott was concerned that the DDI was encroaching even further on the preserve of Special Branch, and from what he had heard of its head, the formidable Superintendent Patrick Quinn, that was an extremely dangerous thing to do. ‘D’you think we should talk to Special Branch, sir?’ he asked, giving voice to those thoughts.
‘Certainly not, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle vehemently. ‘They don’t know anything about solving murders over there. Mr Quinn told me as much when we got involved in the murder of Rose Drummond.’
‘More observations, then, sir?’
‘Yes, but not on weekdays, Marriott. The most I suspect she does after work is to go skating. I’m interested in what she gets up to on a Sunday.’
‘According to Daisy Benson, she goes to church on Sundays, sir.’
‘She won’t be there all day, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, ‘not unless she’s possessed of some sort of religious mania. If she’s meeting anyone secretly, it’ll be on a Sunday afternoon, you mark my words.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Are Lipton and Catto still here?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’ Hardcastle walked to the open door of his office. ‘Lipton, Catto, come in here,’ he bellowed. And when the two detective constables appeared, he said, ‘I’ve got a job for you two tomorrow.’
‘It’s my day off, sir,’ complained Catto unwisely.
‘It’s cancelled,’ said Hardcastle bluntly. ‘It’s a murder enquiry we’re dealing with here, not a picnic in the park. There’s no time for days off.’
‘What’s the job, sir?’ asked Lipton quickly, in an attempt to stop Catto pursuing his complaint and incurring a wrath that was likely to descend upon them both.
‘I need you to follow Mavis Parker. I want to know what she gets up to of a Sunday, and who she meets, because I’m damned sure she’s meeting someone we haven’t come across yet. It might even be this Mortimer fellow that the manageress at the skating rink told us about. Now, I’m told she goes to church on Sunday mornings, so you’d better be ready to start first thing. And if she picks up with someone, I want to know who he is and where he lives.’
‘D’
you want us to follow Mrs Parker as well as this man, sir?’ Catto was concerned to get his assignment right for fear of bringing forth another reproof. But in that he failed.
Hardcastle emitted a sigh of exasperation. ‘I know where Mrs Parker lives, Catto. So if she does meet a man, you follow him and leave her to her own devices, so to speak. There, that plain enough for you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Catto, still furious that the day at Brighton that he had proposed to spend with a young woman whom he had recently met would not now take place. But it was not the first time it had happened. All the girls he had met in the past had proved to be intolerant of his erratic working hours, and that meant he probably would not see his latest conquest ever again. There were times when Catto despaired of ever getting married; marriage was recognized as the only means of escape from the Spartan accommodation afforded by the police section house in Ambrosden Avenue.
‘Right, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, once Lipton and Catto had departed, ‘it’s nine o’clock. I think we’ll have an early night. My regards to Mrs Marriott.’
‘Thank you, sir, and mine to Mrs H.’ Marriott did not think, however, that Lorna would be grateful for the DDI’s regards, as it was he who had been responsible for cancelling her evening out. His task, when he got home, was to attempt to placate her.
Marriott had judged his wife well, and found her in an unforgiving mood.
‘It’s really too much, Charlie,’ said Lorna, the moment Marriott stepped through his front door. ‘I’d got everything arranged with Meg Lewington to look after the children and then you go off on some wretched enquiry.’
‘I couldn’t really help it, love. You know what Ernie Hardcastle’s like when he gets the bit between his teeth. And it is a murder we’re dealing with.’
‘Well, he ought to have more consideration,’ rejoined Lorna. ‘I’ll bet he doesn’t mess up his own evenings out.’
‘I’m afraid he does, love, frequently,’ sighed Marriott. ‘I sometimes think he lives, eats and sleeps the Job.’
‘Yes, but he doesn’t have two small children.’ Lorna refused to give up. ‘Jimmy and Doreen were looking forward to having Meg look after them. Mind you, I think she reads them lots of stories and lets them stay up too late. Which is what you should be doing.’ She shook her head at the unfairness of it all. ‘But I suppose you’ll be an inspector one day,’ she added with a sigh.
‘Maybe,’ said Marriott.
‘You’re late this evening, Ernie.’ Alice was alone in the parlour, engaged in her self-imposed task of knitting socks and mufflers for the soldiers on the Western Front. Once a week, she and a few friends would meet in a room at Bethlem Hospital at the end of Kennington Road. There they would parcel up their knitwear and leave it for collection by the Army Post Office staff.
‘I had to go to Kingston,’ said Hardcastle, without elaborating.
‘I could do with a glass of sherry, Ernie.’ Alice knew better than to ask questions about her husband’s work. She put down her knitting on a side table and stretched her arms.
‘The children out, are they?’ Hardcastle poured his wife a glass of Amontillado and a whisky for himself.
‘As usual,’ said Alice. ‘They don’t seem to spend much time at home these days. But Maud should be in shortly. Her young man’s taken her out to supper.’
Hardcastle had no sooner sat down with his whisky and the evening newspaper than he heard the front door opening. There was a whispered conversation in the tiny hall, followed by giggles from Maud and laughter from Charles Spencer. And then the couple appeared in the doorway.
‘Good evening, sir.’ Spencer crossed the room and shook hands with Hardcastle. ‘Mrs Hardcastle.’ He nodded briefly in Alice’s direction.
‘Have you had a nice evening, dear?’ asked Alice.
‘A very good evening,’ said Maud with a mischievous smile. ‘Charles took me to the Cafe Royal, and we saw that Mr Churchill having dinner with some of his friends.’
‘Didn’t realize he had any,’ muttered Hardcastle, who was not a supporter of the Liberal party.
‘I wonder if I might have a word with you, sir.’ Spencer, looking rather self-conscious, fingered the top button of his tunic.
‘Perhaps we could go into the kitchen, Ma, and make some sandwiches,’ suggested Maud.
‘But I thought you’d just had supper . . .’ Alice began, but then her womanly intuition took over. ‘Yes, of course. I’m sure your father could do with a bite to eat. He only got in a few minutes ago.’
The women left the room, Alice remembering to close the door firmly behind her.
‘Well, what is it, Charles?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘I would like to ask permission for your daughter’s hand in marriage, sir,’ said Spencer, nervously beginning his well-rehearsed speech.
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Hardcastle. He put his unlit pipe in the ashtray and stared at the young man opposite him. ‘You’d better sit down and have a glass of whisky, m’boy,’ he said, playing for time. As the father of two girls, he had known all along that there would come a day when a young man would pose this very question, but now that it had happened he was quite unprepared for it. He busied himself pouring whisky for the young army officer.
‘I proposed to Maud this evening, sir, and she accepted.’
‘Yes, I imagine she would have done,’ said Hardcastle, knowing that he ought to be asking some pertinent questions, but right now he could not think of any. He was never at a loss when questioning a suspect or a witness, but this, to him, was an entirely different situation. ‘She’s only twenty, you know.’ It was the only observation he could think of at the moment.
‘Yes, I know, sir, but she’s very mature for her age, and she’s a jolly good nurse.’
‘I suppose I should ask you about your prospects.’ Hardcastle changed tack as he handed Spencer a tumbler of whisky, and took a substantial mouthful of his own.
‘As a matter of fact, I’m rather keen on staying in the army, sir, and I intend to apply for a regular commission when this show is over. Although the army will be drastically reduced after the war’s ended, my colonel thinks I should stand a very good chance. In fact, he told me that I’m likely to be promoted to captain next week, so I suppose that’s a good sign.’
‘Yes, I imagine it is.’ Hardcastle certainly knew about promises of promotion, but also knew how often they remained unfulfilled. ‘But supposing they turn you down for a regular commission?’
‘It was my intention to read for the bar until this lot with Fritz started, but I’m afraid it rather got interrupted,’ said Spencer, with a boyish grin. ‘But if the army turns me down that’s what I’ll do.’
‘The law’s a bit of a tricky profession to start with. Not much money in it until you’re established.’ But then Hardcastle laughed. ‘I could find you cross-examining me one day at the Old Bailey, I suppose.’ He took another sip of whisky. ‘Oh, dammit, man, of course you can marry my daughter.’ He crossed the room and shook Spencer’s hand vigorously. ‘My congratulations, Charles. And now, I suppose we’d better fetch the women in and break the news to Mrs Hardcastle.’
‘I think she might already know, sir,’ said Spencer.
Hardcastle opened the parlour door. ‘Alice, Maud, come back in here.’
Maud was first through the door. ‘Well, Pa, what did you say?’
‘Say?’ said Hardcastle impishly. ‘Say about what?’
‘Oh, Pa, you know perfectly well.’
‘Yes, I do.’ Hardcastle embraced his daughter and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I hope you’ll both be very happy. God knows, there’s little enough happiness in the world at the moment.’
Alice crossed the room, took Charles Spencer’s hand in both of hers, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Congratulations, Charles. I’m delighted that Maud has found such a charming young man to be her husband. And I’ll be very pleased to welcome you as a son-in-law.’
‘It’s a shame we don’t have an
y champagne,’ said Hardcastle, but given that the cheapest was at least seven shillings a bottle, it was an expense he could not afford, even on an occasional basis. Apart from anything else, German submarine activity in the Channel had ensured that only essential supplies were shipped. The sparkling wine that was produced in Champagne was regarded as an unnecessary luxury and very few cases of it got through.
‘It so happens that I have some, sir.’ Spencer darted out into the hall. ‘I managed to persuade an American officer chum of mine to part with a bottle,’ he said, as he came back. ‘He’s just returned from the Front for a spell of furlough in London, and he picked up a case after the show near Butte de Mesnil in Champagne itself. I had to promise him that he’d be my best man, although I suspect he’ll be back in the United States come the wedding. I’m afraid it’s a bit on the warm side,’ he added, brandishing the bottle.
‘It sounds as though you’d got this all planned, Charles,’ said Hardcastle, warming to his future son-in-law.
‘Strategy and tactics are all part of an infantry officer’s job, sir,’ said Spencer.
For once, Hardcastle forbore from launching into a diatribe about what he saw as the inadequacies of the military. ‘You’d better find some glasses, Maud,’ he said, as Spencer twisted the cork from the champagne.
‘When do you propose to get married, Charles?’ asked Alice.
‘Not until after the war’s over, Mrs Hardcastle.’
‘D’you think that’ll be soon?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Yes, I do,’ said Spencer firmly. ‘From what we’ve heard from some of the Germans that have been taken prisoner they’re sick to death of the whole business. In fact, they’re surrendering in their thousands. What’s more, the Royal Navy has interfered so much with their food supplies that half the population of Germany is starving.’
‘Yes, I read that in the paper the other day,’ said Hardcastle. He took a glass of champagne from his future son-in-law and raised it. ‘Here’s to your future happiness, both of you.’