Hardcastle's Obsession

by Graham Ison

  De Courcy examined his files once more. ‘Two Nelsons were killed in action at Jutland in June of this year,’ he said. ‘Another is serving on HMS Royal Oak at sea, and then . . . ah, here we are: a PO James Nelson is in HMS Epsom currently undergoing a refit at Chatham. He could be your man, Inspector.’

  ‘How do we find him, Lieutenant?’

  De Courcy smiled, and arranged the files into a neat pile. ‘Go down to Chatham and ask the ship’s captain, I should think.’

  It was three o’clock that afternoon when Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at Chatham Dockyard. A Metropolitan Police constable of the Dockyard Division and a sailor armed with rifle and fixed bayonet stood in front of the closed dockyard gates.

  ‘All correct, sir.’ As the two detectives approached, the policeman saluted even before Hardcastle had spoken a word.

  ‘How d’you know who I am?’ asked Hardcastle suspiciously.

  ‘You’re DDI Hardcastle of the Royal A, sir,’ said the PC with a grin. The informal name for the Whitehall Division was a recognition that five royal palaces fell within its area of responsibility. ‘I’m PC Ledger, sir, and I served at Rochester Row up to a couple of months ago.’

  ‘Well, Ledger, as you’re such a clever officer you can tell me where I can find HMS Epsom.’

  ‘Certainly, sir. I’ll just get my mate to relieve me, and I’ll show you the way.’ Ledger shouted to another constable in the gate office. ‘Harry, give us a blow while I show Mr Hardcastle the way to Epsom.’

  PC Ledger pushed open the huge gate, and led Hardcastle and Marriott confidently through the labyrinthine dockyard, eventually arriving at the gangway to HMS Epsom. A khaki-clad Royal Marine stood guard.

  ‘This Bootneck will want to have a glim at your brief, sir. Suspicious lot, the Bootnecks,’ said Ledger, nodding towards the Royal Marines sentry. ‘Couple of police officers to see your skipper, mate.’

  FIVE

  The officer of the day, a youthful sub-lieutenant with a telescope tucked beneath his left arm, stood at the top of HMS Epsom’s gangway. Hardcastle and Marriott, having been alerted to naval traditions by Ledger, the dockyard PC, raised their hats as they stepped on board. The DDI explained who he wished to see, and the two detectives were conducted to the captain’s cabin.

  ‘Henry Cobbold, Inspector. I’m Epsom’s skipper,’ said the young lieutenant-commander, once Hardcastle had introduced himself and Marriott. ‘How can I help you?’ He stepped across the cabin and shook hands with each of the detectives.

  ‘I understand from Lieutenant de Courcy at the Admiralty that a Petty Officer James Nelson is a member of your crew, Captain,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ said Cobbold. ‘The Admiralty sent me a signal saying that you’d be coming. De Courcy said that you think Nelson might know something about a murder.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Hardcastle told the captain about the murder of Annie Kelly that he was investigating, and that Petty Officer Nelson might be able to assist him. ‘But first, Captain, can you tell me where Nelson was on the night of Sunday the twenty-fourth of September?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Epsom’s captain stepped across the cabin and referred to a duty state displayed on a bulkhead. ‘He was here, Inspector,’ he said, glancing back at Hardcastle. ‘He returned from shore leave on Tuesday the nineteenth of September. He’s been aboard ever since then.’

  ‘Is there any chance he could have slipped ashore and gone to London? Last weekend, say.’

  ‘Certainly not, Inspector,’ said the captain firmly. ‘In fact, I saw him several times over that weekend.’

  ‘That rules him out, then,’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘Would it be possible to have a word with Nelson, Captain?’

  ‘Of course.’ Cobbold opened the curtain at the entrance to his cabin. ‘Pass the word for Petty Officer Nelson,’ he said to the marine sentry.

  ‘You sent for me, sir?’ Minutes later a smartly dressed, well-built rating appeared in the entrance of the cabin, his cap tucked beneath his left arm.

  ‘Come in, Nelson,’ said the captain. ‘These two gentlemen are police officers from London, and they want to ask you a few questions. At ease.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said Nelson, adopting a more relaxed stance.

  ‘When did you last see Annie Kelly, Nelson?’ asked Hardcastle, deciding to get straight to the point.

  Nelson glanced at his captain and back at Hardcastle. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t know anyone of that name.’

  ‘Are you married, Nelson?’ Hardcastle immediately sensed the reason for the young petty officer’s reticence.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, I shan’t go running to your wife to tell her you’ve been shagging a Pimlico whore, lad.’

  ‘Is this true, Nelson?’ demanded Cobbold, whose immediate concern was that Nelson might have contracted a venereal disease. ‘You’ll need to see the ship’s surgeon straight away. And that’s an order.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, Captain,’ said Hardcastle mildly, ‘I’d rather you left this to me.’

  ‘I’ve disrated men for less,’ muttered Cobbold, half to himself.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but the matter I’m dealing with is far more serious than the consequences of a sailor consorting with a prostitute.’ He turned back to Nelson. ‘Annie Kelly’s been murdered. Her body was found in the basement of a house in Washbourne Street, Westminster, on the morning of Monday the twenty-fifth of September.’

  ‘Oh my oath!’ exclaimed Nelson, clearly shocked by this news. ‘Who could’ve done such a thing? She was a sweet kid was Annie.’

  ‘So you do know her,’ said Marriott irritably. ‘So, rather than wasting any more of our time, can you tell me if she ever told you about anyone else she was seeing?’

  Nelson ran a hand around his chin, and shot a worried glance at his captain. ‘There was some bloke Annie reckoned was making a nuisance of himself, so she said. Mind you, sir, I took that with a pinch of salt. These girls tend to say things like that to make you jealous.’

  ‘Did you ever see this man, Nelson?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Annie pointed him out to me once, sir, when I was chatting to her on the corner of Wilton Road. He was going into the Victoria Palace. That’s the music hall in Victoria Street.’

  ‘Yes, I know where the Vic is,’ commented Hardcastle.

  ‘Anyway, this bloke had some common sort of woman with him, his wife, I suppose,’ Nelson continued, ‘and he never acknowledged Annie. But you wouldn’t’ve expected him to, would you, sir? Any road, I told Annie that if she ever had any bother with him, I’d tell him to sling his hook in a way that’d make sure he never come back again. If you get my drift, sir.’

  Hardcastle permitted himself a brief smile. ‘I think I do, Petty Officer.’ Appraising Nelson’s stocky build, the DDI thought that any man who picked a fight with him would probably regret it. ‘Did Annie tell you who this man was?’

  ‘No, sir. All she said was that he had a “sir” in front of his name, and was something to do with making uniforms for the pongos . . . er, soldiers, sir.’

  ‘Excellent,’ exclaimed Hardcastle, and turned to the captain. ‘I think that’s all that Petty Officer Nelson can assist me with, Captain.’

  ‘Very well, Nelson, carry on,’ said Cobbold. ‘And see the surgeon immediately,’ he added.

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Nelson drew himself to attention, turned smartly and left the cabin.

  ‘I hope that’s been of some assistance to you, Inspector,’ said Cobbold.

  ‘It might be another piece of the jigsaw, Captain,’ said Hardcastle. ‘On the other hand it might come to nothing. There’s always a lot of work to be done before I have a man standing on the scaffold. But rest assured, I will. Sooner or later.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cobbold pensively, ‘I’m sure you will.’ He had quickly assessed the DDI as a man with whom it would be unwise to trifle.

  It was almost seven o’
clock by the time that Hardcastle and Marriott returned to Cannon Row police station.

  Hardcastle sat down in his office and contemplated what to do next.

  ‘Well, Marriott, all we’ve got to do now is find a “Sir Somebody” who manufactures army uniforms.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But there’s nothing we can do until Monday. Get yourself off home. I dare say your good lady’s wondering what’s happened to you. How is your family, by the way?’

  ‘All right, sir, thank you. Young James is doing well at school, but little Doreen’s proving to be a bit of a handful. She’s six now.’

  ‘Girls always are difficult, Marriott, and it only gets worse,’ commented Hardcastle gloomily. ‘And I should know: I’ve got two of them. But our Kitty’s the problem; she insists on working on the buses. It’s no job for a young girl, but I can’t persuade her to change her mind. Maud’s all right though, she’s nursing. Proper job for a girl is that. Anyway, get off with you, Marriott, and give my regards to Mrs Marriott.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, and mine to Mrs H.’ Marriott had been surprised at Hardcastle’s brief insight into the problem of his eldest daughter. It was a rarity for the DDI to discuss his family.

  It was eight o’clock when Hardcastle opened the door of his house in Kennington Road, Lambeth and hung his hat and umbrella on the hooks in the hall. Taking out his chrome hunter, he glanced at the clock next to the mirror. Satisfied that the hall clock was keeping good time, he wound his watch and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘Is that you, Ernie?’ called Hardcastle’s wife from the kitchen. ‘I’d almost given up on you.’

  ‘Yes, it’s me, Alice.’ Hardcastle walked into the kitchen and pecked his wife on the cheek. ‘What’s for supper, love?’

  ‘Chops, mashed potato and cabbage, Ernie,’ said Alice over her shoulder. ‘And a glass of sherry wouldn’t go amiss. I’m fair parched.’ It was Alice’s custom always to have a glass of sherry on a Saturday evening.

  ‘I think I’ll join you,’ said Hardcastle, which is what he always said when Alice asked for a drink. He went into the parlour and poured a glass of sherry for his wife and a substantial measure of whisky for himself. Taking the drinks back to the kitchen, he put Alice’s glass on the flap of the kitchen dresser, and crossed to the wall by the cooker where he had pinned the war map provided by the Daily Mail.

  ‘For goodness’ sake don’t get under my feet, Ernest,’ said Alice testily. Her use of Hardcastle’s full name was an indication of her frustration. ‘Not while I’m cooking supper. You can make sure the war’s progressing all right when I’m done,’ she added, with a hint of sarcasm.

  Hardcastle moved away. ‘Where are the children?’ he asked. Even though they were young adults, he still referred to them as children.

  ‘Kitty’s on the back shift, home at ten, but Maud will be in shortly. And young Wally should be in from the post office very soon.’

  As Hardcastle had explained to Marriott earlier, Kitty Hardcastle was a constant source of worry to her parents, but more so to her father than to her mother. He was always concerned for her safety, travelling home alone at night from the bus depot. But his main concern was the constant danger of bombs dropped by Zeppelins, or from the new menace, the giant Gotha bombers. Young Walter, Wally to his family, was a telegram boy and spent most of his working day delivering the sinister little yellow envelopes that would tell of the death or wounding of a husband, son or brother at the Front. But he was mindful that even that occupation had its dangers; he recalled the death of the young telegram boy who was hit by falling masonry outside the bombed house in Washbourne Street.

  No sooner had the Hardcastles sat down to supper than Maud appeared. She walked into the dining room and threw her cape and cap on to a vacant chair. Although only nineteen, her nurse’s uniform gave her the appearance of being much older; she had matured quickly tending the victims of the war at one of the big houses in Park Lane that had been given over to the care of wounded officers.

  She crossed the room and kissed each of her parents lightly on the cheek. ‘Is my supper in the oven, Ma?’ she asked.

  ‘Sit down, love,’ said Alice, setting down her knife and fork and standing up. ‘I’ll get it for you. You look worn out. Busy day?’ she asked, as she made her way to the kitchen.

  ‘Nine in today,’ said Maud, ‘all Sherwood Foresters’ officers from the Somme. And three of them died before the day was out, one of them while I was holding his hand. He was only twenty.’ Suddenly the cumulative stress of her job overcame her and she burst into tears, weeping uncontrollably.

  Hardcastle was always at a loss when confronted by a sobbing woman, and did the only thing he could think of: he poured his daughter a glass of Scotch. ‘There, love, drink that,’ he said.

  Maud took a tentative sip of the whisky, the unfamiliar fiery spirit catching the back of her throat.

  ‘What on earth are you doing, Ernest Hardcastle?’ exclaimed Alice, returning with her daughter’s supper. ‘Is that whisky you’ve given the girl?’

  ‘If she’s old enough to look after dying officers, Alice,’ said Hardcastle, ‘she’s old enough to have a drop of whisky when she needs it.’ And in an attempt to divert his wife’s criticism, he added, ‘By the way, Marriott sends you his regards.’

  ‘Marriott?’ exclaimed Alice. ‘Doesn’t your poor sergeant have a Christian name?’

  ‘Probably,’ muttered Hardcastle, and lapsed into silence.

  Ten minutes later, Wally arrived, still in his Post Office uniform.

  ‘Hello, Pa, Ma,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’re home early, Maud,’ he added, glancing at his sister, ‘and drinking the hard stuff, too. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’

  ‘Oh for peacetime again when everyone came in for meals at the same time,’ complained Alice. Once more, she disappeared to the kitchen, returning seconds later with her son’s supper.

  ‘Five KIAs, two MIAs, and three wounded today, all in this area,’ said Wally as he began to devour his chops. ‘All Sherwood Foresters from the Somme.’

  ‘And what might KIAs and MIAs be, Wally?’ demanded Hardcastle. He knew perfectly well what the abbreviations meant, but tried to discourage the use of such military argot by his son.

  ‘Killed in action, and missing in action, Pa,’ mumbled Wally through the forkful of mashed potato he had put into his mouth.

  ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, Wally,’ cautioned his mother.

  As was his custom on a Sunday, Hardcastle checked the accuracy of the eight-day clock on the mantelpiece in the sitting room, and wound it. It was a wedding present from Alice’s parents, and had kept good time for the whole of the 23 years it had stood above the fireplace.

  Hardcastle spent Sunday morning reading the News of the World. He was particularly interested in an account of the British Army’s recent capture of Thiepval, a village that the Germans had held since the first day of the Battle of the Somme. Now, however, it had fallen to an attack by eight of the new Mark I tanks that had first been used only eleven days previously at that infamous battle. He walked into the kitchen, took a German flag from the war map, and, with some satisfaction, replaced it with a Union flag.

  ‘We could go for a walk, Ernie,’ suggested Alice after lunch, sensing that her husband was at a loose end.

  ‘I do quite enough walking when I’m at work,’ said Hardcastle grumpily, and began to read a copy of John Bull. But he soon tired of it. ‘Scurrilous rag,’ he muttered, tossing aside Horatio Bottomley’s magazine. He was fretting about his murder enquiry, but knew that there was nothing he could do until the following day. Nevertheless, he regretted wasting time sitting around at home.

  Hardcastle was pleased to get back to work on Monday morning. He examined the crime book, but found nothing of pressing interest. The internment of so many aliens under the provisions of the Defence of the Realm Act seemed to have reduced the volume of crime in the capital. And that, Hardc
astle frequently said, was about the only advantage of the war.

  He shouted for Marriott, entered his office and lit his pipe.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said Marriott.

  ‘Sit down, Marriott. We’ve got to put our thinking caps on if we’re going to find this toff who’s been consorting with Annie Kelly. I’ve no doubt that there are quite a few firms making uniforms for the army, and I dare say a fair number of their bosses have got knighthoods. God knows why you get made a “sir” just for staying out of the firing line and making a lot of money.’

  ‘I suppose we could rule out those firms that are out of London, sir,’ suggested Marriott. ‘I believe there are quite a few of these factories in Birmingham, and even further north.’

  ‘That’s very helpful, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle acidly. ‘But what about those here in London?’

  ‘I’ll get a couple of DCs on to it straight away, sir.’

  ‘When you’ve arranged that, come back. I’ve had an idea.’

  It took Marriott only a few minutes to set DCs Catto and Lipton to searching for manufacturers of army uniforms in the London area, before returning to discover what his DDI had in mind. It always unnerved him a little when Hardcastle professed to having had an idea.

  ‘I want all the prostitutes in the Victoria area brought into the nick, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Today. And at the same time.’

  ‘All of them, sir?’ Marriott was aghast at yet another of Hardcastle’s bizarre suggestions. He was aware, however, that his DDI often achieved the right result by way of the wrong route.

  ‘Every one of them,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’ll need to arrange for the sub-divisional inspectors here at Cannon Row and at Rochester Row to parade sufficient men to carry it out. I’ll have a word with Mr Tunnicliffe here, and get Mr Rhodes to speak to Mr Marsh at Rochester Row.’

  ‘What time were you thinking of doing it, sir?’ asked Marriott, wondering how this plan would help in furthering the discovery of Annie Kelly’s murderer.

  ‘I think nine o’clock tonight would be a good time. That should catch most of the regular tarts.’ Hardcastle refilled his pipe, lit it and walked down the corridor to the office of his deputy, DI Edgar Rhodes.