by Graham Ison
‘It is possible that Naylor’s not Annie Kelly’s murderer, sir,’ said Marriott hesitantly. He knew that once Hardcastle had made up his mind about a suspect it was very difficult to persuade him that he might be wrong. What was more, as Marriott knew only too well, the DDI was often proved to have been right in his suspicions.
‘Maybe,’ said Hardcastle reluctantly, ‘but I’ve still got a feeling about him. It don’t make sense, a man of his standing consorting with prostitutes. If he was so keen to have it up why didn’t he find some society girl? There’s plenty of ragtime girls about who are willing to jump into bed with a millionaire without him taking the risks of being seen picking up Victoria trollops in broad daylight.’
‘He did have a fling with Lady Sarah Millard, sir.’
‘Yes, but he picked her up on a street corner, Marriott. No, there’s more to Sir Royston than meets the eye. He’s a man who fancies a common tart, and he’ll likely do it again. You mark my words, Marriott.’
‘According to Dr Spilsbury, sir, Annie Kelly was two months pregnant, and that might have had something to do with her murder.’ Marriott was having difficulty in following Hardcastle’s latest line of thinking. Just because one prostitute had been killed did not necessarily mean that there would be others. ‘Of course, we might have another Jack the Ripper on our hands, sir. One of his victims was called Kelly: Mary Kelly.’
‘Very helpful, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, a sour expression on his face. ‘I think we’ll have Naylor followed. Put a couple of men on it next Wednesday. That seems to be his favourite day for having a bit of jig-a-jig.’
Marriott was becoming increasingly concerned at Hardcastle’s unwavering obsession with Naylor as the murderer, but could not think of any way in which he could divert the DDI from his belief that the entrepreneur was Annie’s killer. ‘Anyone in particular, sir?’ he asked.
‘I’ll leave it to you, Marriott, but make sure they know they’re not to be spotted by Naylor. If he finds out that I’m having him tailed, he’ll likely kick up a fuss with someone who’s got a bit of clout. I don’t care too much about that, but it’d make our job much more difficult.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Marriott left the office before Hardcastle had time to add his usual caveat that Catto was not to be used. In Marriott’s view, Catto was the very man for the job.
NINE
Continually frustrated by an enquiry that was making little progress, Hardcastle spent the weekend at home. But he was unable to relax; his mind kept returning to the problems surrounding Annie Kelly’s murder, and his recurring suspicion that Sir Royston Naylor was somehow involved.
All three of the Hardcastles’ children were working for most of Saturday and Sunday. Kitty was early turn on the buses each day, and Maud’s hospital had received an above average number of wounded officers from that charnel house of the British Army, the Somme. For that same reason the Post Office had more telegrams than usual to deliver, and deemed it necessary for Walter to work a twelve-hour shift on Sunday as well as on Saturday.
As was his custom on a Sunday, Hardcastle wound the clock on the mantelpiece, and after lunch settled down to read the newspaper.
To add to his exasperation, Alice chose that particular afternoon to renew her plea that it was time for the family to acquire a motor car.
Hardcastle tossed aside the newspaper. ‘Do you know what a car would cost, Alice?’ he asked irritably.
‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. There was a nice little Ford advertised in the Daily Mail the other day for only £135.’
‘Only £135?’ Hardcastle was appalled. ‘D’you know what I earn a year, my girl? No? Well, I’ll tell you: it’s about £200. How on earth d’you imagine we can afford to buy a car on that sort of wage?’
Unabashed by her husband’s outburst, Alice persisted. ‘That station-sergeant who lives round the corner in Cosser Street has got a car, Ernie.’
‘Yes, and he’s stationed at Marlborough Street nick on C Division. With all those clubs and other dives on his toby you can bet your life he’s copping backhanders for turning the occasional blind eye. I’ll tell you this much, if I was there instead of Bill Sullivan there’d be some sorting out.’ Sullivan, the DDI on C Division was heartily disliked by Hardcastle. He was renowned for his sharp suits, curly-brimmed bowler hat, and rattan cane. His mode of dress coupled with his monocle had earned him the sobriquet of ‘Posh Bill with the Piccadilly window’ among both policemen and villains. It was rumoured that he had a small mirror glued inside his hat so that he could check the tidiness of his hair whenever he entered a building. Hardcastle dismissed him as a poseur.
‘Oh, you’re impossible, Ernest.’ Alice’s use of her husband’s full name indicated the extent of her irritation with his intransigence. She threw down her knitting and retired to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
Hardcastle, now in a worse mood than before, returned to the News of the World, and continued to read the account of the previous day’s sinking of five ships by a German U-boat off Nantucket Island.
‘If that don’t bring the Americans into the war,’ he muttered to himself, ‘nothing will.’
Hardcastle was in no better a mood when he arrived at Cannon Row police station on the Monday morning.
As usual, the station officer had laid out the station books for the DDI’s inspection.
‘There’s been nothing since you initialled them on Friday evening, sir.’
‘Nothing?’ exclaimed Hardcastle in disgust. ‘Surely to God, someone must’ve committed a crime somewhere. I can see I’ll have to have a word with my detectives. They’re not putting themselves about on the manor. Neither, it seems, are the uniformed men,’ he muttered as a parting shot.
The station officer deemed it impolitic to reply, and replaced the books on the shelf at the back of the office.
‘Marriott,’ shouted Hardcastle as he reached the top of the stairs.
‘Yes, sir?’ The sergeant followed the DDI into his office.
‘There’s been nothing in the crime book since Friday evening. What are those detectives of mine doing, eh? Surely the winter patrols would have nicked somebody over the weekend.’ The winter patrols were Uniform Branch officers who aspired to be full-blown detectives, and whose task was to patrol the streets in plain clothes stopping and searching likely suspects.
‘I’ll have a word with them, sir.’ Hardcastle’s comment was a slight not only on the officers concerned, but upon Marriott also whose job it was to supervise them.
‘Any developments with the Annie Kelly enquiry?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘No, sir.’ It seemed to Marriott that the DDI was intent on being disagreeable this morning. ‘Wood’s taking up the observation on Sir Royston Naylor on Wednesday, sir,’ he reminded Hardcastle, in an attempt at placation.
‘Who have you put with him?’ demanded Hardcastle.
‘Catto, sir.’ Marriott spoke hesitantly, knowing what reaction to expect.
‘Catto? Why him, Marriott? He’s no bloody good for a job like that.’
‘There’s no one else, sir. Lipton’s at the Old Bailey all this week with the Army and Navy Stores robbery, and Carter’s at Bow Street with—’
‘Yes, all right, Marriott. I don’t want chapter and verse. I just hope that Catto don’t make a Mons of it.’ The implication was that Marriott would be to blame if anything went wrong, and in particular, if Naylor realized he was being followed. ‘On second thoughts, put them on Naylor today.’
‘Today, sir? But Wednesday’s the day he usually goes to—’ ‘I know what he usually does, Marriott,’ snapped Hardcastle, ‘but after that fiasco with Lady Sarah Millard last week, he might decide to change his routine.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Marriott, and left the office to make the arrangements, relieved that, at last, he was able to escape the DDI’s unreasonable wrath.
It so happened that Hardcastle’s decision proved, yet again, that he had an instinct for predicting human behaviour.
But doubtless the DDI would claim that it was a talent that resulted from his years of experience in what he called ‘the art of thief-taking’, but which encompassed the entire gamut of malefactors. However, even he could not have foreseen the outcome of the observation he had ordered.
Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood was no less skilled at his particular forte, that of conducting discreet surveillance on a suspect, than Hardcastle was at thief-taking. Instead of waiting near Victoria railway station, he decided that he and Catto would begin their observation at the head office of Naylor’s clothing manufactory in Vauxhall Bridge Road at the time when Naylor usually left.
At ten minutes to six the two detectives took up their posts.
‘Grab hold of a cab, Henry, and tell the driver to park a few yards down the road facing Victoria. Tell him it’s police business, and that he’s to wait for further instructions.’
‘Why are we doing that, Skip?’ asked Catto.
‘Because if Sir Royston takes off in his Rolls and we haven’t got the means to follow him, we’ll be in trouble with the DDI before we’ve even started, Henry, that’s why. Now, stop wasting time, and do it.’ Wood did not like having his orders questioned any more than did Hardcastle. ‘And don’t forget to take the cab’s plate number, otherwise the DDI won’t allow the expenses.’
Convinced that everybody today was in a bad mood, Catto crossed the road and flagged down the next taxi he saw. Producing his warrant card, he told the driver to wait for further instructions.
Ten minutes later, at exactly six o’clock, Naylor came out of his office, crossed the pavement to where his driver was waiting with the Silver Ghost, and dismissed him.
‘I knew it,’ said Wood. ‘He’s changed the day he goes hunting for a tart.’
As his Rolls Royce disappeared towards Victoria, Naylor hailed a cab and climbed in.
Wood and Catto raced down the road to where their taxi was parked and leaped aboard.
‘Follow that cab,’ shouted Wood, employing a phrase beloved of crime-fiction writers, but rarely used in real life.
Naylor’s taxi drove past the prostitutes gathered at the corner of Wilton Street without its passenger affording them a second glance. The cab continued through Grosvenor Gardens and Belgrave Place, and finally stopped outside a house in Cadogan Place.
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ exclaimed Wood. ‘That’s where Lady Sarah Millard lives.’
‘What do we do now, Skip?’ asked Catto, as Wood paid off the cab.
‘We hang about, Henry, maintain a discreet observation, as we say in the trade, and see what happens next.’
Sir Royston Naylor alighted from his cab and strode up to the front door. Moments later he was admitted by a trim, smiling housemaid.
‘That’s not the first time he’s called there, Henry,’ said Wood. ‘The maid obviously recognized him.’
‘That Lady Sarah doesn’t give a damn, does she, Skip?’ said Catto. ‘I reckon she’s turned the place into a high-class knocking shop. Might be good for doing her for running a brothel.’
‘It’s only a brothel if there are two or more toms working there, Henry,’ said Wood tersely. ‘I should’ve thought you’d’ve known that.’
Following that latest reproof, Catto lapsed into silence.
The two detectives loitered near the Millard house, trying to look inconspicuous.
Ten minutes later, another cab pulled up outside the house and an army officer got out. He too was admitted without question by the maid.
‘Bloody hell!’ said Catto. ‘If that’s another client there’s going to be a few fireworks.’
‘Yes, it might well be another trick, Henry,’ said Wood with a laugh. ‘If it is, Her Ladyship needs to sort out her diary. Either that or they should form an orderly queue in the hall.’
But the two A Division officers did not have long to wait for the riddle to be solved.
Minutes later, the barefooted figure of Sir Royston Naylor came running out of the house, his face clearly etched with fear. His hair was disarranged, his shirt was unbuttoned and he was holding up his trousers, the braces still hanging down. In his free hand he held a pair of shoes and his jacket, the skirt of which was dragging on the ground.
Almost immediately the army officer appeared on the doorstep, a revolver in his hand. The next moment he discharged the weapon, the round passing harmlessly over Naylor’s head.
‘If I ever catch you with my wife again, I’ll make sure the next one hits you, you white-feather bastard,’ yelled the officer.
‘Ye Gods!’ exclaimed Wood. ‘It’s Sarah’s husband. Go and feel Naylor’s collar, Henry,’ he shouted, and without a thought for his personal safety, raced across to the man with the gun. ‘I’m a police officer,’ he said as he drew closer. ‘Hand over that weapon at once.’
‘Don’t be damned silly, man. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Millard of the Royal Field Artillery, and I’m entitled to possess this weapon.’
‘But you’re not entitled to fire it at people in the streets of London,’ said Wood, ‘and I’m arresting you for discharging a firearm with intent to endanger life. Now, hand it over.’
By now Millard’s temper had cooled, and he realized that he was in serious trouble. Having no desire to exacerbate the situation, he meekly surrendered his revolver.
The maid appeared in the doorway. ‘Will you be in for dinner, sir?’ she asked.
‘No, he won’t,’ said Wood, as he seized Millard’s arm and pushed him across to the opposite side of the road to where Catto had Sir Royston Naylor in a firm hold.
‘Where are we taking them, Skip?’ asked Catto.
‘We’re on Chelsea Division’s ground, Henry. I suppose we’d better take them into Gerald Road nick, and I’ll telephone Cannon Row from there.’ Having made that decision Wood hailed a cab, and he and Catto bundled the two prisoners into it. He made sure that Naylor sat on one of the jump seats, while Millard was placed in the opposite corner. Wood sat beside Millard; Catto beside Naylor. Each held their respective prisoner in a firm grasp. The last thing the detectives wanted was to have the two men engaging in a fist-fight within the confines of a London cab.
Marriott entered Hardcastle’s office with a broad grin on his face.
‘What is it, Marriott?’
‘Wood and Catto have just arrested Colonel Millard and Sir Royston Naylor outside Lady Sarah Millard’s house, sir,’ said Marriott, and outlined the circumstances of the two men’s detention. ‘It seems that Millard caught Naylor having a tumble with Lady Sarah.’
Hardcastle leaned back in his chair and roared with laughter. ‘By God, Marriott, you’ve just made my day. Where are they?’
‘At Gerald Road nick, sir.’
Much to Marriott’s surprise, Hardcastle snatched at his telephone and asked the operator to put him through to DDI Richard Garwood at Chelsea police station. It was an indication of the pleasure he was deriving from the situation that he had not asked someone else to make the connection for him. Usually he would have nothing to do with what he called ‘that damned newfangled instrument’.
‘Dick, it’s Ernie Hardcastle on A.’ And he went on to tell the Chelsea DDI what Marriott had reported.
‘Yes, I’ve just heard,’ said Garwood. ‘Good knock-off by your lads. Can’t have bloody soldiers playing cowboys on the Chelsea Division. The locals wouldn’t like it at all. I’ll bet half of them are on the telephone to the Commissioner right now.’
‘Would you mind if I dealt with it, Dick?’ asked Hardcastle, and told Garwood about the murder of Annie Kelly and his suspicion that Naylor was somehow involved. ‘We know that Naylor had been screwing Lady Sarah on several occasions previously.’
‘Only too glad for you to take it off my hands, Ernie,’ said Garwood. ‘D’you want me to get my lads to escort these two idiots over to you?’
‘There’s no need, Dick,’ said Hardcastle. ‘My two lads are still there. Perhaps you’d be so good as to tell them to bring the prisoners over her
e.’
It had gone eight o’clock by the time that Sir Royston Naylor and Lieutenant Colonel Millard were brought to Cannon Row police station. Hardcastle had wisely directed that they be kept in separate cells for fear that a fight might break out between them. He decided to interview Millard first, and instructed Marriott to bring him to the interview room.
‘Now look here—’ Millard began arrogantly, but got no further.
‘Sit down and shut up,’ snapped Hardcastle.
‘I’m not accustomed—’
‘I said sit down and shut up,’ Hardcastle said again. Once Millard was seated, the DDI sat down opposite him, took out his pipe and began slowly to fill it. He looked up, carefully appraising the army officer. ‘I am Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle, head of the CID for the Whitehall Division.’
‘Well, Inspector . . .’ Millard tried to get a word in, but the DDI was having none of it.
‘Do you have any idea how much crime I have to deal with on this division, Colonel, apart from all the additional regulations that police have to enforce as a result of the war? What’s more, I have Buckingham Palace, the Palace of Westminster, St James’s Palace, and all the government offices in Whitehall within my bailiwick including, I may say, the War Office and the Admiralty. And, as if that’s not enough, I also have Holyrood House in Edinburgh, and Windsor Castle. But what am I doing this evening? Dealing with two grown men who were behaving like a pair of street hooligans.’
‘That man was in bed with my wife, Inspector,’ protested Millard. ‘I arrived home on leave from the Front and that’s what I found. A damned white-feather johnny taking advantage of my absence while I’m fighting for King and Country.’
‘That doesn’t justify firing a revolver in the street to the common danger, Colonel,’ said Hardcastle mildly. ‘It certainly doesn’t sound like the responsible behaviour of an army officer. However, I’m more interested in Sir Royston Naylor.’
‘Who?’ Millard looked genuinely puzzled.
‘Naylor was the man you chased out of your house, Colonel. He’s the head of a firm that makes uniforms for the army.’