by Graham Ison
But Wood had no intention of calling there. Instead, he rang the bell of the apartment immediately beneath it.
‘Good afternoon, sir?’ said a trim housemaid, as she opened the door.
‘Is your mistress at home?’ Wood deliberately asked for the lady of the house assuming, correctly as it happened, that her husband would be at work. ‘I’m a police officer, but please tell her that there’s no cause for alarm. I’m merely making some routine enquiries.’
‘If you care to step inside, sir, I’ll enquire if the mistress is at home.’
After a short delay, the maid reappeared and conducted Wood into a sumptuously furnished sitting room.
‘My maid Ethel tells me that you’re a police officer.’ The young woman standing by the window was wearing a bottle-green silk day dress with close fitting, full-length sleeves. She regarded Wood with a forbidding expression, as though his intrusion had just disturbed whatever she had been doing. Her long hair was parted in the centre and braided into a plait that was draped over the front of her left shoulder. The cigarette in a long holder that she had in her right hand lent her a raffish air that rather shocked Wood; he was unaccustomed to seeing women smoking. But his first impression of severity was immediately dispelled by the woman’s welcoming smile as she crossed the room with a rustle of silk. ‘Please sit down.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. I’m Detective Sergeant Wood of the Whitehall Division.’
‘And I’m Felicity Talbot. How may I help you, Sergeant?’ The woman sat down opposite Wood, hitched her skirt slightly, and crossed her legs to reveal trim ankles, a glimpse of art silk stockings and glacé kid court shoes.
‘It’s nothing really important, Mrs Talbot.’ Wood paused. ‘It is Mrs Talbot, is it?’
‘Oh yes, I’m well and truly married.’ Placing her cigarette holder in an ashtray, Felicity Talbot smiled and twisted her wedding ring, as if to lend credence to her marital state.
‘We’ve received a complaint of noise, unnecessary noise, that is, from one of the residents in these apartments, Mrs Talbot. It’s all really a waste of time, but the police are duty bound to follow up such matters.’
‘Really?’ Mrs Talbot appeared surprised. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever heard any untoward noise, and my husband has never mentioned anything either. When he’s here.’
‘As I thought,’ said Wood. ‘And the people on either side of you are quiet, are they?’
‘We never hear them.’
‘And the people upstairs, immediately above you, they’re quiet, too?’
‘We wouldn’t know there was anyone there, Sergeant. As a matter of fact, we hardly ever see Mr Mortimer. He lives there by himself, you know. We’ve occasionally passed the time of day when we’ve happened to meet, but that’s all.’
‘I see. A businessman, is he?’
‘I don’t really know, but I rather got the impression that he’s a man of private means.’ Felicity Talbot laughed; it was a tinkling and engaging laugh, and she picked up her cigarette holder and put a fresh cigarette in it. ‘Well, I say that because he seems to go in and out at odd times. I don’t mean in the middle of the night, or anything like that, of course. Not that I’d know about that; I’m always in bed rather early. And I sleep like a log.’ She paused to light her cigarette. ‘Is he the resident that the complaint was about?’ she asked, expelling smoke towards the ceiling. ‘Or was he the one complaining?’
‘Oh no, it wasn’t him,’ said Wood. ‘But I can’t reveal the source of the complaint, you’ll understand, particularly as it seems to be groundless. These things lead to bad feeling among neighbours.’
‘Of course.’ Felicity Talbot paused, as if a sudden thought had occurred to her. ‘Would you care for a cup of tea, Sergeant?’
‘That’s very kind, ma’am,’ said Wood, ‘but I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble. It’s probably made already. The girl usually brings it in about now.’ Mrs Talbot leaned across to press a bell push. ‘Would you bring us the tea, Ethel,’ she said, when the maid appeared. ‘Your job must be very interesting, Sergeant Wood,’ she continued, while they were waiting for the tea. ‘Have you investigated any murders?’
‘One or two,’ said Wood, without mentioning that he was investigating one right now.
‘How exciting. Do tell.’
‘I’m afraid they’re all rather mundane,’ replied Wood. ‘Mainly what we call domestics. Husband kills wife and that sort of thing.’
‘Good heavens.’ Mrs Talbot put a hand to her mouth, rather affectedly. ‘How fascinating, but not here in Ashley Gardens, I hope.’
‘No, ma’am,’ said Wood, grateful that, at that moment, the maid appeared with the tea.
‘You can leave it, Ethel, I’ll pour it,’ said Mrs Talbot. ‘It’s so nice to have someone to talk to,’ she continued, as she busied herself pouring the tea into bone china cups. ‘It gets rather lonely here during the day and my husband works long hours. Milk and sugar?’ But before Wood could ask what her husband did, she volunteered the information. ‘He’s a major in the Royal Flying Corps, but he’s stationed at the War Office now, thank God, helping to prepare plans for the new service.’
‘The new service?’ Wood gave the impression of being puzzled by the comment.
‘It’s no secret,’ said Felicity. ‘They’re busy drawing up plans to put the RFC and the Royal Naval Air Service into one organization next month. I believe it’s to be called the Royal Air Force.’
‘Well I never,’ said Wood, who was well aware of the proposal, but always believed in encouraging conversation however banal.
‘This Mr Mortimer, the man upstairs, seems to be a motoring enthusiast, you know,’ Mrs Talbot continued. ‘He bought a new car – well, I don’t think it was new – a couple of months ago. He once offered to take my husband and me out for a spin, but Robert, that’s my husband, declined. He said he didn’t trust the fellow.’ Felicity laughed her same gay laugh again. ‘I think he thought that Lawrence Mortimer had designs on me.’
Wood laughed too. ‘Well, if, as you say, he doesn’t go out to work, I suppose he has to do something to wile away the time.’
‘I don’t know why he isn’t in the army. My husband said that Mr Mortimer is the sort of man that women give white feathers to. But maybe he’s engaged in some sort of secret war work that he doesn’t dare to talk about.’
It’s probably a case of him not daring to admit that he sells corsets, thought Wood, as he rose to his feet. ‘Thank you for the tea, Mrs Talbot. I’m sorry to have wasted your time on what seems to have been a pointless enquiry.’
‘Not at all, Sergeant Wood. As I said just now, it’s nice to have a bit of company from time to time.’ Felicity Talbot stood up and extended a hand. ‘But it seems an awful waste of a detective’s time to be following up on trifling enquiries about people disturbing their neighbours. I’d’ve thought that they’d’ve sent an ordinary policeman.’
‘Not necessarily, ma’am,’ said Wood, surprised at the woman’s perspicacity. ‘In wartime it’s always possible that a simple enquiry of that sort could lead to something far more serious.’
‘Golly!’ exclaimed Mrs Talbot, ‘I’d never thought of that.’
Wood stepped out into Thirleby Road just in time to see a man turn sharply and walk swiftly away. But he was not so quick that Wood failed to recognize him. It had begun to rain and Wood put up his umbrella and hurried out to Victoria Street in search of a bus to take him home.
Arriving at Cannon Row on Tuesday morning, Wood made straight for the DDI’s office.
‘Learn anything, Wood?’ asked Hardcastle.
Wood explained in some detail what he had discovered from his visits to Marcus Sawyer in Acton and Felicity Talbot in Ashley Gardens.
‘Interesting,’ said Hardcastle, when Wood had finished. ‘I suppose it’s possible that he is engaged in some sort of secret war work, but I’m not buying it.’ Clearly, he had made up his mind that Lawrence
Mortimer was up to no good. ‘I mean to say, no self-respecting man claims to be a corset salesman if he ain’t.’
‘There was one other thing, sir,’ said Wood. ‘When I came out of Ashley Gardens, I spotted Gilbert Stroud of MI5. He legged it a bit sharply, but not before I’d recognized him.’
Hardcastle took his pipe from the ashtray and lit it, leaning back in his chair. ‘Well now, ain’t that a curious thing, Wood? In my book, that means that Lawrence Mortimer is likely to be up to something that interests MI5. And that interests me.’
For some time, Hardcastle sat mulling over what Wood had reported. Then he shouted for Marriott.
‘I presume you’ve heard what Wood discovered about Mortimer, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle when his sergeant had joined him.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘In that case, I think we’ll pay a visit to the War Office, Marriott, and have a word with this here Major Robert Talbot of the Royal Flying Corps.’
‘What do we hope to learn from him, sir?’ Once again, Marriott was mystified that the DDI was changing the direction of the enquiry.
‘If Lawrence Mortimer is up to no good, and I rather think he is, then we can rely on the major to be factual about anything he knows, Marriott, which is probably more than his wife knows. And being an army officer, Major Talbot’s likely to be a reliable and discreet informant.’ And without further ado, Hardcastle put on his overcoat and hat, and seized his umbrella. With Marriott in tow, he set off for the War Office, further down Whitehall.
‘All correct, sir.’ The policeman on the fixed point outside the War Office saluted as Hardcastle and Marriott approached.
‘I doubt it; there’s a bloody war on,’ muttered the DDI, as he ascended the four steps and pushed open one of the double doors.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked the elderly custodian as he approached the DDI, but then recognition dawned. ‘Ah, it’s Inspector Hardcastle, ain’t it? I remember you coming here a few times a couple of years back, sir.’
‘You’ve got a good memory,’ said Hardcastle.
‘You has to keep your wits about you in this job, guv’nor,’ replied the custodian. ‘Now then, who did you want to see today?’
‘Major Robert Talbot of the RFC,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Major Talbot, ah yes. Him what’s working on this new air force nonsense. Not that I think it’ll ever come to anything. After all, when this lot’s over they’ll be going back to cavalry like what we had in South Africa. That General French commanded the first cavalry brigade out there and routed the Boers at Colesberg. Never needed no airy-planes to sort that lot out.’
‘That’s all very interesting,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but where can I find Major Talbot?’
‘Ah yes, Major Talbot. Half a mo, guv’nor.’ The custodian spent a few moments thumbing through a directory. ‘Now, let me see. Ah, there he is,’ he said, jabbing the page with a finger. ‘I’ll get one of the messengers to take you up, sir.’
Hardcastle and Marriott were eventually shown into a small office on the top floor of the War Office.
‘The police is here to see you, sir,’ announced the messenger.
Robert Talbot was a young man, probably in his mid-twenties, and was seated behind a desk. He was in his shirtsleeves, and his distinctive RFC ‘maternity’ tunic, bearing pilot’s wings and the ribbons of the Distinguished Service Order and the Military Cross, was thrown casually over a chair.
‘Whatever it is, I didn’t do it,’ said Talbot, with a laugh. ‘Now then, what can I do for you?’ He stood up, skirted the desk and shook hands.
‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, Major, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’
‘Is this a coincidence, I wonder? Oddly enough, my wife had a visit from the police yesterday afternoon, Inspector.’
‘Yes, I know, Major. Detective Sergeant Wood is one of my officers.’
‘Ah! Am I to take it that you’re interested in Lawrence Mortimer, then? Reading between the lines, I rather thought that this business about people in our apartment block creating a disturbance was all my eye and Betty Martin. After all, detectives don’t usually take an interest in that mundane sort of thing, do they? From what Felicity told me, I got the impression that your man seemed more interested in Mortimer than in noisy neighbours. Sorry, do take a pew.’ Talbot swept up his tunic, slipped it on – but left it unbuttoned – and indicated a couple of chairs.
‘Your wife sounds like a very astute woman, Major,’ said Marriott.
‘Not at all, old boy. It was me who worked out that there was more to your chap’s enquiry than met the eye. Felicity’s only interested in the newest dance craze to cross the Atlantic. I think her latest fad is something called the Monkey Hunch, whatever that is when it’s at home. Not that I have any time for dancing what with all this business about creating something to be known as the RAF. According to the latest bumf to float up from downstairs, “Boom” Trenchard wants me to be called a squadron leader instead of a major. Still, I suppose it’ll all come right in the end. But I’ve got my doubts, particularly as it’s supposed to come into being on All Fools’ Day.’
‘You’re quite right, Major,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We are interested in Lawrence Mortimer. And if I might speak in confidence—’
‘Of course, Inspector. Anything said between these four walls stays here.’
‘We have reason to believe that Mortimer might not be the corset salesman he claims to be.’
‘Mortimer a corset salesman?’ Talbot threw back his head and guffawed. ‘Not Pygmalion likely!’
‘What do you think he does for a living, then, Major?’
‘Frankly, I don’t know, Inspector, but he’s a bit of a shady cove, coming and going at odd hours. Whatever it is that he does, it’s not a regular job. But you obviously think he’s up to no good.’
Hardcastle weighed carefully what he was about to say next. ‘Between you and me, Major, I rather fancy him for a murder.’
‘Ye Gods! Do you really? By Jove, that’s a turn up.’
‘It might be as well not to alarm your good lady by telling her that, Major, and it is only a suspicion at the moment. I’m not suggesting that he’s a Jack the Ripper, rather that I think he might’ve murdered a man for a specific reason.’
‘I see. What can I do to help?’
‘Just keep your eyes open, Major, that’s all,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott stood up. ‘Don’t confront him, or ask questions or anything like that. Apart from anything else, I don’t want him alerted to our interest, but if you happen to notice something odd, perhaps you’d let me know at Cannon Row police station.’
‘Gladly, Inspector,’ said Talbot, shaking hands once again.
Marriott was still puzzled by the interview with Major Talbot when he and Hardcastle reached the street.
‘We don’t seem to have achieved much by talking to the major, sir,’ he said.
‘On the contrary, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We’ve cast our bread on the waters. Anyone like Major Talbot who’s won a DSO and a Military Cross flying one of them wood and string contraptions on the Western Front will have developed a sharp eye. He’ll tell us if he spots anything that’s likely to be useful to us.’
Hardcastle settled himself behind his desk, took his pipe from the ashtray, but after a moment’s thought replaced it.
‘Well, Marriott, so far we’ve got Lawrence Mortimer taking Mrs Parker out for a spin in his motor car on a Sunday morning. Marcus Sawyer, the solicitor, told Wood that Mortimer claimed to be a corset salesman. Frankly, I don’t buy it and nor, would it seem, does Major Talbot. I think it’s time we had Mortimer in for a few questions. I want to know how and where he met Mrs Parker, and what he’s up to.’
But at that precise moment a knock on Hardcastle’s door effectively took that decision out of his hands.
‘Good morning, sir.’ The smartly dressed man who stood on the threshold was well known to Hardcastle,
and his arrival usually presaged something unsettling.
‘Bless my soul, Marriott, if it ain’t Detective Sergeant Aubrey Drew of Special Branch. I wondered how long it would be before you turned up, Drew.’
‘It’s Detective Inspector Drew now, sir,’ said Drew, with a grin.
‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘What did you have to do for that, Mr Drew? Catch twenty spies, or can you get away with just collaring ten these days?’
‘Something along those lines, sir.’ Drew glanced at Marriott. ‘Good morning, Charlie.’
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Marriott, acknowledging, at least in Hardcastle’s presence, the fact that Drew was now an inspector.
‘From what I know of Special Branch, Marriott, one should always beware of the smile on the face of the tiger.’ Hardcastle glanced back at the SB inspector. ‘I don’t somehow think you just called in to tell us of your good fortune, Mr Drew,’ he said.
‘Indeed not, sir. Mr Quinn sends his compliments and would be obliged if you’d see him as soon as is convenient.’
‘Is it raining, Mr Drew?’ asked Hardcastle,
‘No, sir,’ said Drew, slightly puzzled by the question.
‘But one never knows when a sudden squall might occur,’ said Hardcastle enigmatically, as he seized his bowler hat and umbrella. He knew that when a superintendent asked a divisional detective inspector to see him as soon as was convenient, it meant immediately. And it usually meant trouble, but just how much trouble he was soon to discover.
FOURTEEN
Leaving the police station, Hardcastle crossed the courtyard and mounted the steps of New Scotland Yard, finally reaching the office of the head of Special Branch.
‘Good morning to you, Mr Hardcastle. I shan’t keep you a moment.’
Superintendent Patrick Quinn, head of Special Branch for the past fifteen years, was standing behind a huge oak desk set across the corner of the room. He was a tall Irishman of severe countenance, with a grey goatee beard, an aquiline nose and black, bushy eyebrows. For a moment or two, his piercing blue eyes studied the inspector who now stood in front of his desk, before returning to the dossier he had been reading. Eventually closing it, he placed it in the centre of his desk, sat down and surveyed Hardcastle afresh.