by Graham Ison
‘It’ll come out in the divorce court anyway, sir.’ Marriott thought that Hardcastle was wasting his time, or worse, and was looking for something to do just to relieve his boredom. But, as was so often the case, Marriott was proved wrong.
Hardcastle hammered on the door of Lady Sarah Millard’s apartment three times, but received no answer.
‘She’s not there, sir,’ volunteered Marriott.
‘I’d rather worked that out for myself, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle sarcastically, and returning to the ground floor, he knocked on the caretaker’s door.
‘Yes, sir? Can I help you?’ The caretaker was a man of some fifty years, dressed in black trousers, a white shirt and waistcoat, and a green baize apron.
‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle, and I’m anxious to have a few words with Lady Sarah Millard.’
‘Not seen her this morning, sir,’ replied the caretaker. ‘Mind you, she might’ve slipped out when I was busy, but she don’t usually go out of a morning. But I can’t keep track of everyone,’ he muttered defensively. ‘There’s a lot of people living here.’
‘D’you have a key to her apartment?’ Hardcastle asked. It had occurred to him that some benefit might be gained from looking around Lady Sarah’s apartment in her absence.
‘I do, sir,’ said the caretaker hesitantly, ‘but aren’t you supposed to have a search warrant? I mean is it legal?’
‘This says it is.’ Hardcastle withdrew a search warrant that he had executed some days previously in connection with an entirely different matter, and briefly flourished it under the caretaker’s nose.
‘That’s all right, then,’ said the relieved caretaker. ‘I don’t want to get into no trouble with the management, you see, sir. I do have my position to consider.’
‘Very wise,’ commented Hardcastle. ‘By the way, what’s your name?’
‘Harris, sir. Ted Harris.’
‘When you’re ready, then, Mr Harris.’
The caretaker fetched a bunch of keys, and led the two detectives back upstairs to the first floor.
‘All right, Mr Harris,’ said Hardcastle, once the caretaker had opened the door to Lady Sarah’s apartment. ‘You can leave this to us. If you give me the key, I’ll return it to you when we’re done.’
‘I s’pose that’ll be all right, sir.’ Somewhat reluctantly Harris handed over the key, and returned to his office.
‘Right, then, Marriott, we’ll have a gander round and see if we can find anything interesting.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott was greatly concerned about Hardcastle’s illegal search. He was, however, secure in the knowledge that if it was queried none of the opprobrium would fall on him. But apart from that he had no idea what the DDI hoped to find.
After a cursory glance around the sitting room, Hardcastle pushed open the door to the only bedroom. ‘Stone the bloody crows!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s all we need.’
Lying on the bed was the fully clothed body of Lady Sarah Millard, her eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
Marriott moved swiftly across the room, seized the girl’s wrist and felt for a pulse. ‘Nothing, sir,’ he said, glancing at Hardcastle. ‘There are red marks on her neck; it looks like manual strangulation.’
‘I think we’ll let Dr Spilsbury be the judge of that, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Best get on to him straight away. And summon up a couple of men from the nick. I dare say Harris has got a telephone in his office.’
‘There’s one in the sitting room, sir,’ said Marriott, and returned there to do the DDI’s bidding.
Ten minutes later, having run all the way from Cannon Row police station, Detective Constables Catto and Carter arrived. They knew that when the DDI summoned them to the scene of a murder, he would accept no excuses for delay.
‘You and Carter stand guard on this apartment, Catto, and don’t touch anything. I’m going down to have a word with the caretaker.’
‘Has she been murdered, sir?’ asked Catto innocently.
Hardcastle stared at the unfortunate detective. ‘Well, Catto, she’s not bloody well taking a mid-morning nap, that’s for sure.’ And with that crushing comment the DDI descended to the ground floor.
‘Everything all right, sir?’ asked the caretaker.
‘No, Mr Harris, everything’s not all right. Lady Sarah Millard’s been murdered.’
‘Ye Gods!’ exclaimed Harris. ‘Whatever happened?’
‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Have you noticed any strangers coming in here during, say, the last twenty-four hours?’
Harris ran a hand round his chin, and shook his head. ‘Can’t say as how I have, sir.’
‘Well, then, d’you know of any of Lady Sarah’s regular visitors? A man most likely.’
Once again Harris shook his head. ‘Lady Sarah was a nice young lady, sir. Well, being a lady in her own right, like, she would be, wouldn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ said Hardcastle pensively. He had no intention of sharing details of Lady Sarah’s murky past with a caretaker.
‘She always kept herself to herself, as you might say,’ added Harris, ‘and she never give no trouble.’
‘Very interesting,’ said Hardcastle impatiently, ‘but did she have any male visitors?’ he asked again.
‘Not that I know of, sir.’
It was an hour or more before Dr Bernard Spilsbury arrived. With his customary efficiency, he first glanced around Lady Sarah’s bedroom, his eyes taking in any detail that might help him in his determination of the cause of the young woman’s death. Moving across to the bed, he made a visual examination of the corpse before beginning the routine of taking temperatures and all the necessary tests that followed.
‘You seem to be making a habit of finding murder victims in Artillery Mansions, Hardcastle,’ said Spilsbury, when he had finished conducting his tests. ‘This August just gone, wasn’t it, the last one? Edith Sturgess if I remember correctly.’
‘Yes, it was. That was after the murder of Rose Drummond in Hoxton. You’ve a good memory, sir.’
‘One needs a good memory in my profession, Hardcastle. Now, about this woman . . .’ Spilsbury waved a thermometer at the body of Lady Sarah. ‘My initial opinion is that she died as a result of manual strangulation. I’ll be able to confirm that once I open her up. As to time of death, you’ll have to wait until then as well.’ He began to put away his instruments. ‘Have the cadaver removed to St Mary’s at Paddington, Hardcastle, there’s a good fellow.’
‘Of course, Dr Spilsbury.’
Hardcastle had instructed Marriott to send for Detective Inspector Charles Stockley Collins, head of the Yard’s fingerprint bureau, and he arrived as Dr Spilsbury was leaving.
‘How d’you do, Collins?’ Spilsbury nodded briefly in the fingerprint expert’s direction.
‘Very well, sir, thank you,’ said Collins. He turned to Hardcastle. ‘I’ll see what I can find for you, Ernie, but from what Marriott told me, I doubt I’ll find any that have earned a place in my index.’
‘I think you’re right, Charlie,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but we’ve got to try. Might come in useful when I nick the bloke who did it.’
‘You think you will?’
‘You can put money on it, Charlie.’
‘I’ll keep my money in my pocket, thanks all the same, Ernie.’ Collins knew of Hardcastle’s reputation for solving murders.
Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at St Mary’s hospital at ten o’clock on the Saturday morning.
As usual, Dr Spilsbury had started early, and had finished by the time the detectives appeared in his examination room.
‘As I predicted, Hardcastle, she died as a result of manual strangulation. It’s interesting that her murder was similar to that of Annie Kelly.’
‘In what way?’ asked Hardcastle, his interest immediately aroused.
‘The thyroid cartilage had been broken. As in the Kelly case, I would say that considerable force was applie
d by a right hand, or even both hands.’
‘Same killer, then,’ suggested Hardcastle.
‘It’s possible, Hardcastle,’ said Spilsbury. ‘Or it might be a coincidence.’
‘Some coincidence,’ muttered Hardcastle.
‘D’you have a suspect in mind?’ asked Spilsbury.
‘Yes, I do, sir. How long had Lady Sarah been dead?’
Spilsbury looked thoughtful. ‘I would say not more than twenty hours, and not less than ten. That’s the best I can do for you.’
‘It’s enough, sir, and thank you, once again.’
‘I hope you catch him.’
‘I shall, sir, I shall,’ said Hardcastle.
Marriott nodded in agreement. He, too, knew of Hardcastle’s reputation, but had no idea how the resourceful DDI was to realize his promise.
‘I suppose we’d better go and see the Earl Rankin, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, as they left St Mary’s hospital, ‘and tell him his daughter’s been murdered. You’d better find out where he lives.’
‘Pont Street, Chelsea, sir,’ said Marriott, with a measure of self-satisfaction. He was aware that, at some stage, the DDI would want to know. ‘And a country estate in Queen’s Magna, Hampshire.’
‘And I suppose the Rankins will be down there, seeing as how it’s Saturday,’ said Hardcastle gloomily, ‘but we’ll give Pont Street a try first on the off chance.’ And without further ado, he hailed a cab.
THIRTEEN
The detectives’ taxi stopped outside a large, gabled redbrick mansion in Pont Street.
‘Don’t forget to note the plate number, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, as he marched up to the front door.
‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott did not have to be reminded to record that important detail; it was required in order to substantiate a claim for expenses from the Receiver to the Metropolitan Police. But Hardcastle always said it.
‘Are you reporters?’ The butler who opened the door surveyed the two policemen disdainfully.
‘No, we’re not,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, and I wish to see Lord Rankin on an important matter.’
‘I do beg your pardon, gentlemen. You’d better come in,’ said the butler, suddenly adopting a far more conciliatory attitude.
Hardcastle and Marriott entered the large hall, in the centre of which was a round table on which were a number of coats and hats, and an army officer’s cap bearing the badge of the Coldstream Guards.
‘I’m afraid you’ve come at a somewhat inopportune moment, Inspector. We have just heard that his lordship was killed yesterday on the Somme.’
‘I didn’t realize he was serving,’ said Hardcastle, now at a loss to know how to break this further distressing news.
‘Oh yes, sir. He was a career soldier in the Coldstream Guards, and he was commanding a brigade of the Guards when he was killed.’
‘This is going to be difficult, Mr . . .?’
‘Bristow is my name, sir. Might I enquire in what respect it is difficult?’
‘I came here to inform the family that Lady Sarah Millard has been murdered.’
‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed Bristow, his customary deferential reserve vanishing. He paused in thought for a moment. ‘The Rankins’ eldest son is here together with the countess, sir. It might be better if you were to talk to him, and he could perhaps break the news to Her Ladyship at a more propitious moment. Not that I can imagine when that would be.’
‘That might be for the best,’ said Hardcastle, thankful that he did not have to present the grieving Lady Rankin with word of her daughter’s shocking death.
‘Perhaps if you would care to step into the library, sir. Her Ladyship is in the drawing room, together with Master Geoffrey.’ Bristow paused and hurriedly corrected himself. ‘Earl Rankin as he now is, of course.’ He showed Hardcastle and Marriott into a book-lined room that led off from the back of the hall, and disappeared to find the Rankins’ eldest son.
The door opened to admit a young man in the uniform of a captain, the distinctive two-button grouping indicating that, like his late father, he was a Coldstream Guards officer.
‘Bristow tells me that you wish to see me, Inspector.’
‘I’m afraid so, Lord Rankin,’ said Hardcastle.
‘No, it’s my father who’s Lord Rankin and . . . oh, you’re quite right, Inspector. It’ll take time for me to grow accustomed to the title. I’m afraid I have other things on my mind at the moment. Obviously, Bristow told you of the death of my father.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But I’m sorry to have to say that I bring you further distressing news.’
‘Oh God! It’s not my brother Archie, surely?’
‘No, sir. It’s about your sister, Lady Sarah Millard.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Geoffrey Rankin’s face assumed a stony expression. ‘We don’t talk about Sarah, Inspector. Not after the disgrace she brought upon the family. I suppose you know about this awful business of her being unfaithful to Hugo, and the court martial, and all that.’
‘Yes, sir, I was present at that hearing. No, I’m sorry to have to tell you that Lady Sarah is dead.’
‘Ye Gods! How much more can this family take? My apologies, gentlemen. Do please sit down.’ Geoffrey Rankin sank into a chair and waited while the detectives seated themselves. ‘What happened?’
‘She was murdered, Lord Rankin,’ said Hardcastle bluntly, appreciating that there was no way to avoid stating the bald fact.
‘Murdered?’ Rankin passed a hand over his forehead. ‘Was it one of the men she was seeing?’
‘I don’t know at this stage, sir,’ said Hardcastle stiffly. ‘Enquiries are in hand, but I have to say that it seems likely.’
‘I don’t know how I’m to break this to my mother. The shock of my father being killed has completely unnerved her. What this latest tragedy will do, God only knows.’ It was obvious that the new Lord Rankin was at a loss.
‘Have you just returned from the Front, Lord Rankin?’ asked Marriott.
‘Not recently, no. I came back from Wipers about a month ago. I’m at the Royal Military College at Sandhurst, training young officers. It’s just as well that I’m at home in the circumstances.’
‘It might help us if you knew of any men that Lady Sarah was seeing, Lord Rankin,’ continued Marriott. That Geoffrey Rankin had been back in the country for only a month made it unlikely, but it was a question that had to be asked.
‘I’m afraid not. I’m sorry, you are?’
‘Detective Sergeant Marriott, sir. It’s just that we are anxious to trace anyone who might have known your sister.’
‘Someone she might’ve slept with, I suppose you mean,’ said Rankin in a tone of voice that revealed his disgust at his sister’s behaviour. ‘No, Sergeant, I can’t help you, much as I would like to.’
Hardcastle stood up. ‘Thank you, Lord Rankin. I’m sorry to have been the bearer of bad news, but I was duty bound to inform you.’
‘Of course. Thank you, Inspector.’ Young Rankin crossed the library floor and tugged at a bell pull. ‘I’ll have Bristow show you out. Has Sarah’s body been released for burial yet?’
‘Not yet, sir,’ said Hardcastle. ‘That’ll be a matter for the coroner, of course. But I’ll let you know as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, I quite understand.’ Geoffrey Rankin turned as the butler appeared in the doorway. ‘Perhaps you’d show these officers out, Bristow.’
‘Very good, My Lord,’ murmured Bristow. He had quickly adapted to Geoffrey Rankin’s new status.
The two CID officers followed Bristow into the hall. ‘A sad day for the family, sir,’ he said as he handed them their hats and coats.
Back at Cannon Row police station, Marriott followed Hardcastle into his office.
‘What’s next, sir?’ he asked.
‘We’ll have Sir Royston Naylor in, and give him a talking-to, Marriott, that’s what’s next,’ said Hardcastle.
‘In the meantime, we’ll adjourn to the Red Lion where you’ll have the privilege of buying me a pint.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Marriott grinned, secure in the knowledge that neither he nor Hardcastle ever paid for their beer in the pub outside Scotland Yard.
‘D’you intend to arrest Sir Royston Naylor, sir?’ asked Marriott, when he and Hardcastle were back in the DDI’s office.
‘Not yet,’ said Hardcastle. ‘According to Dr Spilsbury, Lady Sarah was topped between ten and twenty hours before we found her. That means that she was murdered on Thursday sometime between two o’clock and midnight. Personally, I’d hazard a guess at sometime later on Thursday evening. I think we’ll have a run down to Wendover and have a word with the butler. What was his name?’
‘Edward Drake, sir, and his wife Gladys is the cook-general.’
‘Ah yes, of course it is.’ Hardcastle was playing his usual game of pretending to forget names. ‘If we have a word with him before Sir Royston Naylor has time to rig up an alibi, we might catch him on the hop.’
‘D’you really think Naylor’s our man, sir?’
‘I’m convinced of it, Marriott. Convinced of it.’
‘When d’you propose going, sir?’ Marriott was afraid that Hardcastle intended to go this afternoon, or even worse, tomorrow morning. The DDI had never been averse to working right through a weekend.
‘We could go this afternoon, I suppose,’ said Hardcastle impishly, ‘or maybe tomorrow. Sunday would be a nice day for a run out to Buckinghamshire.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott flatly.
Hardcastle laughed. ‘It’s all right, Marriott, don’t get yourself in a lather, we’ll go Monday morning. That’ll give Naylor time to lull himself into a false sense of security. Go home and see your children. And give my best to Mrs Marriott.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said a relieved Marriott. As a CID officer he saw all too little of his wife and children. ‘And my regards to Mrs H.’
Only Alice Hardcastle was at home that Saturday evening. Kitty and Maud were both on duty, and Wally had gone to the Bioscope picture house in Vauxhall Bridge Road with a workmate of his to see The Vagabond, Charlie Chaplin’s latest comedy.