Hardcastle's Obsession

by Graham Ison

  ‘Harry Waldren told me that a sailor was in the habit of picking up Annie Kelly,’ continued Hardcastle. ‘What d’you know about that?’

  ‘Yeah, I seem to remember a bluejacket hanging round her. Handsome big bloke, he was. I wouldn’t’ve minded having him across me.’

  ‘And did they go off together?’

  ‘Yeah, I think they did. Once or twice.’

  ‘And they went to Annie’s place in Ebury Street, I suppose,’ suggested Hardcastle.

  ‘Well, he never looked like he’d got enough sausage and mash to fork out for a hotel,’ said Queenie with a cheeky grin.

  ‘Any idea of his name, Queenie?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘I think she called him Jimmy, but I never heard his other name.’

  ‘When did you last see him and Annie Kelly together, Queenie?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Must’ve been about a week ago, I s’pose, but he might’ve been with her since,’ said Queenie. ‘I never kept a tally of how many tricks she turned,’ she added sarcastically. ‘I had me own tricks to look after.’

  ‘And he went with Annie two or three times?’

  ‘Yeah, like I said. He seemed quite sweet on her,’ said Queenie. ‘But I suppose he was married an’ all,’ she added, with the typical cynicism of a prostitute whose knowledge of men had been acquired rapidly and at an early age.

  ‘All right, you can go,’ said Hardcastle, having decided that he would get no more out of the young woman.

  ‘Is that it, then?’ Queenie stood up and put her hands on her hips in an attitude of defiance. ‘You going to pay for me cab back to Victoria, then?’

  ‘No, you can walk,’ said Hardcastle. ‘The exercise will do you good.’

  ‘Bleedin’ hell,’ exclaimed Queenie. ‘You’ve cost me a few bob already.’

  ‘Thank your lucky stars that’s all it’s cost you,’ commented Marriott. ‘Annie Kelly got topped.’

  Despite the fact that it had gone half past nine, Hardcastle decided that it would be an apposite time to call at the late Annie Kelly’s lodgings in Ebury Street.

  A hatchet-faced harridan answered the door to Hardcastle’s persistent knocking. Dressed in black bombazine, her greying hair was drawn back into a tight bun.

  ‘What’s all the bleedin’ racket about?’ demanded the woman. ‘Disturbing honest folk at this time of night.’

  ‘Police,’ said Hardcastle. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Clara Foskett. And it’s Mrs Foskett to you.’

  ‘Are you the owner of this property?’

  ‘Nah, it’s rented, not that it’s got anything to do with you. Any road, what do the police want with me, might I ask?’ Mrs Foskett stood four-square in the doorway, arms akimbo. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong.’

  ‘D’you let a room to Annie Kelly?’

  ‘What if I do?’

  ‘I’m not going to stand on your doorstep bandying words with you, missus,’ said Hardcastle, and he and Marriott pushed past the woman into the hall.

  ‘Oh, come in do,’ said Mrs Foskett caustically.

  ‘When did you last see Annie Kelly?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Last Saturday,’ said Mrs Foskett promptly. ‘Why all the questions about her? She’s my niece, and she’s a good girl. Never gives no trouble.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Hardcastle did not for one moment believe that Annie Kelly was the landlady’s niece. ‘Well, Mrs Foskett, I’m sorry to have to tell you that your niece is dead.’

  ‘Oh my Gawd and heavens above!’ exclaimed Clara Foskett and took hold of the banister post at the bottom of the staircase. ‘What happened? Get run over by a tram, did she?’

  ‘No, Mrs Foskett, she was murdered.’

  This further news caused Clara to sit down on the second stair, her legs spread in an ungainly fashion. ‘Who could’ve done such a thing?’ she asked, and looked up at the DDI with an imploring look on her face, as though he would come up with an answer.

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said Marriott. ‘But it’s not going to be easy, seeing as how she was a whore.’

  ‘What d’you mean, a whore?’ snapped Mrs Foskett, recovering her composure sufficiently to fix Marriott with an accusing gaze.

  ‘We know that she was plying her trade outside Victoria station, and was in the habit of picking up soldiers and sailors who paid her for her favours,’ continued Marriott. ‘Did she bring her tricks back here?’

  ‘She sometimes brought a gentleman friend back here, yes,’ said Mrs Foskett defensively.

  It did not escape Hardcastle’s notice that she was familiar with the term ‘trick’ for a prostitute’s client.

  ‘Anyone called Jimmy, a sailor?’

  ‘I think there was a nice young gent in navy uniform what come once or twice. A petty officer, Annie said he was. Quite high up in the navy.’

  ‘The crow’s nest is about the highest he’ll get,’ muttered Hardcastle.

  ‘Did Annie tell you his surname?’ asked Marriott.

  Mrs Foskett gave the question some thought. ‘Yes, it was Nelson. We had a bit of a laugh about that, and asked him if he was related to the admiral what was killed at Trafalgar.’

  ‘And where did Annie and Nelson go, once they were here?’

  ‘Up to Annie’s room, of course. I don’t have a decent sitting room, not for visitors. There’s only my private one where I occasionally entertain, and I don’t like to be disturbed by any ragtag and bobtail.’

  ‘We’ll have a look in Annie’s room, then,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Perhaps you’d show us the way, Mrs Foskett.’

  ‘What d’you want to go up there for?’

  ‘Because your nice young sailor might just have been the one who strangled her,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘I s’pose I might get to my bed before midnight,’ complained Mrs Foskett, as she struggled into an upright position and led the way to the first floor.

  ‘Thank you, madam,’ said Hardcastle, as the landlady hovered at the door of Annie’s room. ‘You can go now.’

  Without a word, Mrs Foskett tossed her head, and returned to the ground floor muttering, yet again, about police disturbing honest folk late at night.

  Hardcastle and Marriott searched Annie Kelly’s room thoroughly. Surprisingly it was neat and tidy. The bed was made, and the articles on the dressing table, including a hairbrush, a comb, and several pots of cream and other women’s necessities, were laid out in an orderly fashion.

  There were a few items of flashy cheap clothing in a cupboard, and one or two trashy magazines, but nothing that might lead them to her killer.

  ‘Well?’ Mrs Foskett was waiting in the hall when the two detectives came downstairs.

  ‘That’ll be all, Mrs Foskett,’ said Hardcastle. ‘For the moment.’

  ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Clara Foskett. ‘You wouldn’t like to turn the house inside out while you’re here, I s’pose?’ she asked sarcastically.

  Hardcastle opened the front door. On the doorstep were a man and a young girl, probably no older than twenty. The girl had a key in her hand.

  ‘D’you live here?’ demanded Hardcastle.

  ‘Yes, I do. And who might you be?’

  ‘Police,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Christ!’ exclaimed the man who was with the young woman, and promptly turned and ran down the street.

  ‘Oh, thanks a bleedin’ lot,’ said the girl as she watched her trick escaping.

  ‘What’s your name, miss?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Fanny Booth. Why?’

  ‘How well d’you know Mrs Foskett?’

  ‘She’s my niece,’ said Clara Foskett from the foot of the stairs, before Fanny could reply.

  ‘Is that true?’ asked Marriott of the young girl.

  ‘Er, yes, of course.’ But Fanny had paused long enough for the detectives to know she was lying.

  ‘How well d’you know Annie Kelly?’ asked Hardcastle, once Fanny had stepped into the hall and closed the front door.r />
  ‘Not all that well.’ Fanny glanced at her ‘aunt’ in much the same way that a faltering actress glances at the prompt box for help with the next line.

  ‘But if you’re Mrs Foskett’s niece, you and Annie must be sisters, or at least cousins.’

  ‘We’re a big family,’ put in Mrs Foskett.

  ‘Be quiet, Mrs Foskett,’ snapped Hardcastle.

  ‘Why are you asking about Annie?’ asked Fanny.

  ‘Because she’s been murdered, Miss Booth,’ said Marriott.

  ‘Murdered?’ Fanny’s face drained of colour. ‘What happened?’

  ‘She was found strangled in the basement of a bombed-out house in Washbourne Street last Monday morning,’ said Hardcastle. ‘What d’you know about that?’

  ‘Nothing, as God’s my witness,’ protested Fanny Booth.

  ‘Did you ever see her coming in with a sailor?’ queried Marriott. ‘Petty Officer Jimmy Nelson of the Royal Navy.’

  ‘She did come in with a sailor once or twice, yes.’

  ‘When was the last time?’

  ‘Must’ve been about a week ago, I s’pose.’

  ‘And you’ve not seen him since?’

  ‘No, I never.’

  ‘Where did she pick him up? Victoria station, was it?’

  ‘I dunno. Maybe.’

  ‘Are you one of the girls who pick up soldiers coming off the trains at Victoria station, Fanny?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘No, I ain’t.’ Fanny contrived outrage. ‘What d’you take me for?’

  ‘A common prostitute,’ said Hardcastle harshly. ‘And if I was in your shoes, I’d pack it in. At least until we find out who topped your mate. You never know who he might pick on next. It might be you. I suppose you’ve heard of Jack the Ripper.’ And with that dire warning Hardcastle dismissed Fanny Booth, and turned his attention, once more, to Mrs Foskett. ‘I want details of where I can find Annie Kelly’s family,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know nothing about her family,’ responded Clara Foskett truculently.

  ‘Really? But you said she’s your niece. That means that either her father or her mother is either your brother or sister.’

  ‘Well, she’s not exactly a niece,’ said Clara Foskett. ‘More of a distant relative.’

  ‘D’you have a telephone here, Mrs Foskett?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Can’t afford such luxuries, unlike some. What d’you want a telephone for, anyway?’

  ‘To send for a Black Annie to take you to the police station,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Unless you come up with an answer now.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Mrs Foskett, now thoroughly alarmed. ‘She was just renting a room here, but I never knew what she was up to.’

  ‘I’ll take that with a pinch of salt,’ said Hardcastle. ‘So, what do you know about her?’

  ‘Only her name.’ Clara Foskett paused. ‘But a letter come for her yesterday.’

  ‘Fetch it,’ commanded Hardcastle, his patience shortening by the second.

  Mrs Foskett scuttled into her sitting room, returning moments later clutching a letter.

  Hardcastle snatched the missive and put it in his pocket. ‘You’ll be hearing from the police again, Mrs Foskett,’ he said. ‘Running a brothel can get you locked up for quite a long time. I should think you’ll settle in at Holloway prison quite happily.’ And with that parting sally, he and Marriott left Mrs Foskett to contemplate a future incarcerated in the notorious North London women’s prison.

  ‘At least we’ve got a name of someone Annie Kelly was seeing regularly, sir,’ said Marriott, as he and Hardcastle strode down Ebury Street in search of a cab.

  ‘Yes, for what good that’ll do us. But I suppose we’ll have to pay a visit to the Admiralty,’ said Hardcastle, stopping to light his pipe.

  ‘Are you going to do anything about Mrs Foskett running a brothel, sir?’

  ‘Haven’t got the time, Marriott, but remind me to have a word with the sub-divisional inspector at Gerald Road. He’ll likely want to nick Mrs Foskett in the fullness of time.’ Hardcastle glanced at his watch. ‘There won’t be anyone at the Admiralty at this time of night, so it’ll have to be tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday, sir,’ observed Marriott.

  Hardcastle stopped again. ‘Are you suggesting that the Royal Navy takes the weekend off in wartime, Marriott?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir, but we might have a wasted journey.’

  ‘Find out, Marriott. Anyway, the Admiralty’s only down the road from the nick.’

  Hardcastle eventually spotted a cab. ‘Scotland Yard, cabbie,’ he said to the driver. ‘Tell ’em Cannon Row, Marriott,’ he added in an aside, ‘and half the time you’ll finish up at Cannon Street in the City.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott wearily, who had been given this advice on almost every occasion that he and Hardcastle had returned to their police station by taxi.

  Once in his office, Hardcastle donned his spectacles and tore open the letter addressed to Annie Kelly.

  ‘This letter addressed to Annie Kelly comes from an address in Greenwich, Marriott. It don’t say much: just the usual stuff about the family. But here’s the interesting bit. “I hope you’ve settled in your new job as a housemaid in Ebury Street, Annie dear. Do let your pa and me know how you’re getting on. And come and see us when you’ve got a day off.” It’s signed “Your loving mother.”’ Hardcastle placed the letter in the centre of his desk. ‘It looks like it’ll be us breaking the news to Annie’s loving mother, Marriott.’

  ‘Yes, sir. When d’you propose to do that?’

  ‘As soon as we can fit it in, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but that’ll be after we’ve tracked down Petty Officer Nelson.’

  When Hardcastle arrived at Cannon Row at his usual time of half past eight on Saturday morning, Marriott was waiting for him.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the Admiralty, sir. The custodian there told me that a Lieutenant de Courcy is the duty officer this weekend, and will be arriving at about ten o’clock this morning.’

  ‘Ten o’clock?’ echoed Hardcastle. ‘You wouldn’t think there was a war on, would you, Marriott? Or doesn’t Fritz come out to play earlier than that on a Saturday?’

  Marriott remained silent, knowing from previous experience that it would be unwise to encourage one of Hardcastle’s acerbic diatribes about the armed forces and the war.

  At five minutes to ten, Hardcastle seized his bowler hat and umbrella, shouted for Marriott, and together they made their way down Whitehall.

  As the two policemen passed through the gate of the Admiralty, an armed sailor, assuming Hardcastle to be an officer, sloped arms and gave him a butt salute.

  The DDI solemnly acknowledged the compliment by raising his bowler hat. ‘For all the good he is, Marriott,’ he said in an aside, ‘we could be a couple of German spies.’ He waved his umbrella at Admiralty House to the left of the main building. ‘Admiral Nelson lay in state there in 1806 after they’d brought his body home from Gibraltar in a cask of spirits of wine, Marriott.’

  ‘Is that so, sir?’ Marriott had always been surprised by Hardcastle’s occasional flashes of historical knowledge, even though he had heard of Nelson’s lying in state every time he and the DDI had passed through the gates of the Admiralty. Apart from the snippet about the liquid in the cask. ‘But I thought his body was brought home in a barrel of brandy, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Only as far as Gibraltar, Marriott. Then it was put into a cask of spirits of wine for the voyage back to London.’

  A uniformed custodian opened the door. ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’ he asked.

  ‘Police officers,’ said Hardcastle, and produced his warrant card. ‘We’re here to see a Lieutenant de Courcy. I understand he’s the duty officer.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The custodian beckoned to a messenger. ‘Take these police officers to Lieutenant de Courcy’s office, Charlie.’ That done, the custodian turned to a telephone to alert de Courcy of the detectives’ arr
ival.

  The tall naval officer rounded his desk with hand outstretched. ‘Hugo de Courcy, gentlemen.’ He paused, appraising the two detectives. ‘I’ve a feeling we’ve met before,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed we have,’ said Hardcastle. ‘A couple of years ago; just around the outbreak of war, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Inspector Hardcastle, is it not?’

  ‘That’s so.’

  ‘Please take a seat, gentlemen, and tell me how I may be of service to you,’ said de Courcy.

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of a prostitute,’ said Hardcastle, and recounted brief details of the circumstances under which Annie Kelly’s body had been found. ‘We’ve reason to believe that a petty officer by the name of Nelson was seen in the woman’s company on several occasions. I’m very anxious to trace this man, Lieutenant de Courcy. He’s known as Jimmy, but I suppose his first name is James.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ murmured de Courcy, and made a few notes on a foolscap pad. Replacing the cap on his fountain pen, he put it down beside the pad. ‘It will take a few minutes to get the appropriate documents, Inspector,’ he said. ‘They’re kept in the vaults, you see. But in the meantime, may I offer you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Thank you,’ murmured Hardcastle, and settled down for what he imagined would be a long wait.

  De Courcy struck a brass bell on his desk and a clerk appeared. ‘Perhaps you’d order some tea for these two gentlemen, Rawlings. Oh, and a cup for me. Once you’ve arranged that, go down to the records section and draw the service history of this man.’ He quickly wrote Nelson’s name and details on a slip of paper and handed it to the clerk. ‘He’s a petty officer, not a dead admiral,’ he added with a wry smile.

  To Hardcastle’s surprise, the tea arrived within minutes, and a pile of files containing records of service shortly afterwards.

  ‘It’ll probably come as no surprise to you, Inspector, that there is more than one Petty Officer James Nelson in the Royal Navy,’ said de Courcy, stirring his tea with one hand while sifting through the files with the other. ‘Have you any idea when this petty officer was here in England?’

  ‘All I can tell you is that witnesses spoke of seeing him a week ago.’