by Graham Ison
‘Oh?’ Hardcastle paused. ‘What’s that all about, then?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Marriott.
‘No, I didn’t expect you to, Marriott. I was wondering aloud, so to speak. Superintendents don’t usually tell sergeants why they want DDIs.’ Hardcastle entered his office and placed his bowler hat and umbrella on the hatstand. It had been a mild autumn so far, and he had not deemed it necessary to bring his chesterfield overcoat into use. ‘Well, I’d better see what it’s all about, I suppose.’ He walked along the corridor and tapped lightly on Superintendent Arthur Hudson’s door before entering.
‘Ah, Ernie, good morning.’ Hudson, the officer in command of the A or Whitehall Division of the Metropolitan Police was standing behind his desk reading a file.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Sit yourself down, Ernie. I’ve got a tricky murder for you here.’ Hudson flourished the file.
‘All my murders are tricky ones, sir.’
‘Yes, but I think this one just might test you more than a little,’ said Hudson with a smile, as he seated himself behind his desk. ‘Do light up, Ernie.’ The superintendent knew it to be Hardcastle’s invariable habit to start his working day by smoking a pipe.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Hardcastle filled his pipe with his favourite St Bruno tobacco, and accepted the box of Swan Vestas matches that Hudson pushed towards him.
‘There was a bomb at a hundred and forty-three Washbourne Street on Sunday night,’ Hudson began.
‘Yes, I know, sir.’ Hardcastle expelled smoke towards the nicotine-stained ceiling; Hudson, too, was an inveterate pipe smoker, perhaps smoking more often than even Hardcastle.
‘Inspector Sankey of Rochester Row was in charge of the incident,’ began Hudson, reading from the inspector’s report. ‘Apart from a telegram boy who was killed in the street, there were seven fatalities in the house itself. However, the body of a young woman was found in the basement, but Sankey was unable to discover her identity. A man called Jackson assisted Sankey at the scene, but swore he’d never seen the woman before. Sankey is fairly satisfied that she wasn’t a resident.’
‘Could’ve been a visitor, I suppose, sir,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Possibly,’ said Hudson, ‘but there’s a complication. The doctor who examined her, only in order to certify death, was of the opinion that she might’ve been strangled.’ The superintendent glanced at Hardcastle, a half smile on his face.
‘Who was this doctor, sir?’
‘A Doctor Thomas, a local GP.’
‘Not a pathologist, then,’ said Hardcastle dismissively.
‘No, but the Home Office can’t spare a forensic pathologist to examine every victim of a bombing, Ernie. No doubt you’ll want Spilsbury to take a look.’
Dr Bernard Spilsbury was an eminent specialist in the field of murder, and his reputation was such that the likelihood of his appearance in the witness box caused many a defence counsel to work into the small hours preparing his cross-examination. One of Spilsbury’s most recent causes célèbres was the Brides-in-the-Bath case when his evidence of the method by which George Joseph Smith had murdered his several wives was instrumental in sending Smith to the gallows just over a year ago.
‘Indeed, I shall, sir. Dr Spilsbury will tell us whether the woman had been strangled or not. Frankly, I don’t trust a local GP to be certain of the cause of death, and I’d hate to have to put him in the witness box. Defence counsel would make mincemeat of him, particularly if it were someone like Marshall Hall.’ Sir Edward Marshall Hall, scourge of prosecution witnesses, was regarded as the foremost defence counsel of the day. But even he, when defending Smith, had been bettered by Spilsbury. ‘Where’s this here body now, sir?’
Hudson referred to the report again. ‘Horseferry Road mortuary.’
‘I dare say Dr Spilsbury will want the body moved to St Mary’s at Paddington. It’s where he always does his post-mortem examinations.’
‘I’ll leave you to speak to Spilsbury about that, Ernie. And the best of luck.’
Hardcastle walked back down the corridor, shouting for Marriott on the way.
‘Yes, sir?’ said Marriott, as he followed the DDI into his office.
‘We’ve got a suspicious death to deal with, Marriott.’
‘Yes, sir, I know,’ said Marriott.
Hardcastle frowned. ‘How did you know that?’ he demanded.
‘It’s the job of the first-class sergeant to know all that’s happening on his subdivision, sir.’ Marriott risked a smile.
‘Yes, well as you’re so clever, Marriott, perhaps you can tell me who this young woman is.’
‘I’m not that clever, sir.’
‘No, I didn’t think so. Get on that telephone thing, and ask Doctor Spilsbury if he’d be so good as to examine a body for us.’ Although conversant with its use, Hardcastle disliked the telephone and in common with many of his contemporaries, regarded it as a newfangled invention that would not last.
Marriott returned ten minutes later. ‘Doctor Spilsbury asked that the body be removed to St Mary’s at Paddington, sir, and he’ll examine it at two o’clock this afternoon.’
‘Yes, well, I thought he’d want it there. See to it, Marriott.’
‘Manual strangulation, Hardcastle, without a doubt,’ said Spilsbury. ‘There were bruise marks on the young woman’s neck, and when I opened her up I found that the thyroid cartilage had been broken. I would say that considerable force was applied by the thumb of the right hand, or even by both thumbs. It might even have been a chopping action with the heel of the hand, but it was no accidental killing.’
‘Is it possible that the injury was caused by the falling masonry on the night of the bomb?’ asked Hardcastle, wondering if, even yet, he might avoid a murder enquiry.
‘Maybe,’ said Spilsbury, ‘although I very much doubt it. There was nothing to indicate that to be the case. I would definitely say that deliberate pressure was applied with the intention of killing the victim, or, as I said just now, a lethal blow.’
‘Well, that’s murder, then,’ said Hardcastle phlegmatically. ‘Anything else I should know, Doctor?’
‘It’s not possible in the circumstances to say how recently she had indulged in sexual intercourse, my dear Hardcastle, but I can tell you that she was about two months pregnant.’ Spilsbury paused to turn the body on its side. ‘There is a birthmark here behind the left knee,’ he said, pointing with a pair of forceps. ‘That might help. I understand that the cadaver has yet to be identified.’
‘That’s correct, Doctor. We don’t know who she is at the moment, but I’ll find out, you may rest assured of that.’
Spilsbury smiled, and took off his rubber apron. ‘I’m sure you will, Hardcastle.’
‘Let’s have a look at the clobber she was wearing, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle when, once again, the two detectives were back at Cannon Row police station.
Marriott opened the large paper bag in which he had carried the unknown woman’s clothing from the hospital, and emptied it on to a table in the detectives’ office.
Using a pencil, Hardcastle poked at the various items, paying particular attention to the woman’s underwear. ‘That’s the sort of stuff a tart would wear, Marriott,’ he said eventually. ‘My girls wouldn’t be seen dead in that sort of clobber.’
‘No, sir,’ said Marriott, forbearing from saying that the unknown woman had been found dead in that sort of clobber. The DDI did not appreciate such humour, unless he was the one practising it.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised to find that she’s a prostitute. Where’s the nearest whores’ beat to Washbourne Street, Marriott?’
‘These days it’s mainly Victoria station, sir, and the girls usually congregate when a troop train’s due in. They seem to know that the two things a swaddy wants when he gets home on leave is a pint and a tumble. They tend to gather near the buffets, but the railway coppers move them on. So they just shift to the street outside, usually near the pub o
n the corner of Wilton Road. Then they get moved on again by our men.’
Hardcastle glanced, in turn, at each of the four detective constables who were standing around the table in the centre of the room. ‘Catto.’
‘Sir?’ said Detective Constable Henry Catto, stepping across to the DDI.
‘Take your three colleagues down to Victoria station and start asking questions among the prostitutes who hang about there. I want to know if any one of them is missing.’ That done, Hardcastle addressed himself to DS Herbert Wood. ‘Get a message off to surrounding stations, Wood, asking them to check reports of any missing persons who fit the description of our body.’
‘Anything for me, sir?’ asked Marriott.
‘Yes. Ask Mrs Cartwright if she can rustle up a couple of cups of tea, Marriott. Then we’ll sit down and put our thinking caps on.’
TWO
‘How’s your boy Jack, Mrs Cartwright?’ asked Hardcastle, as the station matron set down her tray and placed two cups of tea on the DDI’s desk.
‘He was all right the last time I heard from him, sir, thank you. He’s a lance-bombardier now.’ Mrs Cartwright was proud of her son who had been serving with the Royal Garrison Artillery since the outbreak of the war. ‘I managed to get some of your favourites,’ she added, putting a plate of ginger snaps on the desk.
‘Well done, Mrs C,’ said Hardcastle, and dropped three pennies on the tray.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Mrs Cartwright scooped up the coins and put them in the pocket of her overall coat.
‘Where’s your lad stationed now, Mrs C?’
‘I don’t rightly know, sir, except that he’s somewhere in France or Belgium, I suppose. He’s not allowed to say exactly where in his letters. I know he tries to tell me, but sometimes they arrive with whole bits blacked out.’
‘That’ll be the censor’s work,’ said Hardcastle. ‘It’s in case old Fritz happens to read the lad’s letters, so the censor’s making sure your boy doesn’t accidentally tell the enemy anything.’
‘I s’pose so, sir,’ said Mrs Cartwright, failing to understand how the Germans could possibly read her son’s letters home. Picking up the tray she went on her way.
‘Well now, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, dunking a ginger snap in his tea. ‘What are we going to do about this here murder of ours?’
Marriott was tempted say ‘Wait and see’, but he knew that was not the answer his chief wanted. ‘Is it possible that she was staying with one of the deceased, sir?’ he asked tentatively.
‘It’s possible, Marriott, but I doubt we’ll ever know now. Anyway, that don’t help us to identify her. She could’ve come from anywhere.’ Hardcastle found the prospect of investigating the unknown’s murder a daunting task, but he was not about to admit it to his sergeant.
‘I suppose the birthmark on her leg might help, sir.’
Hardcastle shook his head. ‘It’s a dog’s dinner, Marriott,’ he said, using one of his favourite expressions to describe a difficult enquiry, although this was sometimes varied to ‘a dog’s breakfast’. ‘We’d better see what Catto and his colleagues turn up, I suppose, if anything. There are times when I think that Catto needs a squib up his arse, Marriott. You really need to get a hold of him.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott, but forbore from further comment. He knew that DC Henry Catto was a good detective, and it was only when he was in the DDI’s presence that he seemed to become bereft of his confidence.
For the remainder of the morning, Hardcastle toyed with his detectives’ reports. Some he accepted, some he sent back with acerbic pencilled comments in the margin for alteration, and others he rejected outright.
At one o’clock, he again summoned Marriott. ‘Time you bought me a pint, Marriott,’ he said, and together they adjourned to the downstairs bar of the Red Lion. That Marriott should pay was one of the DDI’s jokes; Hardcastle never paid for his beer in the Red Lion.
The public house was conveniently situated on the corner of Parliament Street and Derby Gate, just outside the Whitehall entrance to New Scotland Yard. As usual, their lunch consisted of a fourpenny cannon and two pints of best bitter.
‘And now, Marriott, we’ll go round to Washbourne Street, and have a dekko at the scene of this here crime.’
The pavement and part of the road in front of 143 Washbourne Street had been barricaded, and a policeman stood guard.
‘All correct, sir.’ The PC saluted as he recognized the DDI.
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ muttered Hardcastle, gazing at the ruins of the house. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’
‘Mr Marsh says we’re to keep an eye open for looters, sir.’ Marsh was the sub-divisional inspector in charge of the Rochester Row station.
‘Safe to go in there, is it, lad?’ Hardcastle always called PCs ‘lad’ regardless of their age or service.
‘I think so, sir. The men from the council depot have been round tidying up and making safe.’
‘Oh, you think it’s safe, do you? Well, I hope you’re right, lad, because if I fall arse over tit, I’ll come after you.’
Ducking beneath the barrier, Hardcastle and Marriott stepped across the rubble. Eventually finding the cellar steps, they descended warily into the basement. Much of the debris had been cleared away by council workmen, and the detectives were able to see reasonably well.
‘Have a look around, Marriott, and see if you can find anything that might shed some light on this poor girl’s death.’ Hardcastle began poking about with his umbrella, but held out little hope of finding anything that might further his investigation, but in that he was wrong.
Marriott caught sight of something glinting in the light that had penetrated that part of the basement. Stooping, he picked up a piece of jewellery.
‘What have you got there, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘It’s a necklace, sir. Lucky one of the workmen didn’t nick it.’
‘Let me have a look.’ Hardcastle put on his spectacles, took the necklace and examined it closely. ‘That’s called a dog collar necklet, Marriott. Looks like silver, and unless I’m much mistaken, they’re diamonds. I wonder who it belongs to.’ He handed it back. ‘Have a word with one of the jewellers on the ground, and see what he has to say about it. Might lead us somewhere, I suppose.’
‘It looks as though the clip’s been broken, sir,’ said Marriott, examining the necklace afresh.
‘Could’ve been torn off the victim’s neck in the struggle, I suppose,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Not that I think a tom could’ve afforded a piece like that. Of course, it might’ve been given to her by a grateful client, or she might’ve nicked it.’
‘Maybe so, sir,’ said Marriott, slipping the necklace into his pocket. ‘But I don’t think there’s anything else here to interest us.’
Leaving Hardcastle to return to the police station alone, Marriott made for a jeweller of his acquaintance in Victoria Street.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Marriott. Won’t keep you a moment.’ Gilbert Parfitt was dealing with a customer, a well-dressed man, who was examining a tray of rings.
The man eventually decided against a purchase, and left the shop.
‘We’ve had today’s list, Mr Marriott,’ said Parfitt, turning his attention to the detective. The list to which he referred was circulated daily to jewellers and pawnbrokers, and detailed stolen items of jewellery and valuable metals that thieves might have attempted to sell.
‘Yes, I know, Mr Parfitt.’ Marriott withdrew the necklet from his pocket. ‘I wonder if you’d have a look at this silver and stones piece,’ he said, and handed it to the jeweller.
Parfitt spread a baize cloth on the counter, placed the necklet on it, and screwed a jeweller’s glass into his eye. He spent some minutes studying the piece before looking up. ‘A very nice setting, Mr Marriott.’ He put aside his glass. ‘Is it stolen?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Marriott. ‘It was found at the scene of a murder. We’re not sure who it belongs to, but we’re f
airly certain it’s too expensive to have belonged to the prostitute who was murdered.’
‘Unless she stole it,’ said Parfitt with a smile.
Marriott nodded. ‘It’s a possibility we have to consider, of course. But can you tell me what it would be worth?’
‘The stones are diamonds set in platinum, not silver.’ For a moment or two Parfitt gave the matter some thought, and then referred to a large book that he withdrew from beneath counter. ‘At a reasonable estimate,’ he said eventually, ‘I doubt you’d get much change out of three hundred and fifty pounds, Mr Marriott.’
Marriott emitted a low whistle. ‘As much as that?’
‘I would say that it belonged to a woman of some wealth, Mr Marriott.’
‘I suppose there’s no way of tracing who it belonged to originally, is there?’
Parfitt looked doubtful. ‘I can take a description, Mr Marriott, and circulate the details among the trade. It may take some time, and even then I might not discover the owner. But I’m willing to try.’
‘Very good of you, Mr Parfitt,’ said Marriott. ‘I’m much obliged.’ And with that, he returned to Cannon Row, and told the DDI what he had learned.
‘Don’t get us much further, Marriott,’ grunted Hardcastle.
It was not until six o’clock that evening that Henry Catto returned to the police station. He tapped on the DDI’s door and waited for the barked command to enter.
‘Yes, Catto?’
‘Er, it’s about the prostitutes, sir,’ said Catto nervously.
‘Well, what about them? And don’t stand there hovering in my doorway like a dying duck in a thunderstorm. Come in, lad.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Catto took a pace or two towards Hardcastle’s desk. ‘We talked to the women who frequent the Victoria station area, sir, and—’
‘I should hope you did, Catto. That’s what I sent you up there for. What did you find out?’