by Graham Ison
After dinner, Hardcastle spent the evening reading a book before he and Alice turned in for an early night.
On Sunday morning, following his usual practice, Hardcastle walked down to the newsagent on the corner of Kennington Road to buy a copy of the News of the World, and an ounce of St Bruno tobacco.
‘Keeping you busy, Mr Hardcastle, are they?’ Horace Boxall had owned the newsagent and tobacconist shop for as long as Hardcastle could remember.
‘Busy enough, Horace. I’ll have a box of Swan Vestas too.’
Boxall put the newspaper, tobacco and matches on the counter, took Hardcastle’s shilling and handed him the change.
‘I see some big noise in Austria was assassinated yesterday, Mr Hardcastle.’
‘Really,’ said Hardcastle, feigning some interest in the matter.
‘It’s on page three, I think.’
Hardcastle opened the News of the World, and found the item to which Boxall had referred. The prime minister of Austria, Count Karl von Stürgkh had been shot dead in a Vienna restaurant by a journalist, Friedrich Adler.
‘Never heard of him, but I don’t suppose he’ll be much of a loss,’ commented Hardcastle, and pocketed his tobacco and matches. ‘One more Hun we won’t have to worry about.’
From Boxall’s, Hardcastle made his way to the nearby licensed grocer’s shop run by the know-all Mr Squires.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Squires. ‘I see the war’s not going too well. The battle of the Somme’s still dragging on, and we seem to be getting nowhere.’
‘Bit of an expert on warfare, are you, Squires?’ said Hardcastle. He was always irritated by the grocer whose opinions of the way in which the war should be conducted were expressed with total disregard to the facts.
‘I reckon they should get rid of that General Haig. I don’t think he knows what he’s doing.’
‘Perhaps you should volunteer for the army, Squires, and get out there to give him the benefit of your advice.’
‘Nothing I’d like more, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Squires earnestly, ‘but I’m a martyr to the arthritis. Not fit, you see.’
‘Well, I hope it don’t stop you from reaching for a bottle of that Johnnie Walker’s Red Label.’
Squires placed the bottle of whisky on the counter. ‘I’ll just put it in a bag for you, Mr Hardcastle. I’m not supposed to sell spirits on a Sunday, but seeing you’re a policeman, I suppose it’ll be all right. That’ll be four and sevenpence, sir.’
‘That’s gone up,’ complained Hardcastle as he handed over two half crowns.
‘It’s the war, sir,’ said Squires mournfully, and gave Hardcastle fivepence change. ‘You mark my words, it’ll be six shillings before this war’s out.’
‘Six bob for a bottle of Scotch, Squires?’ scoffed Hardcastle. ‘That’ll be the day.’ He was still laughing as he left the shop.
It was with his usual feeling of relief that Monday morning came, and Hardcastle set off for the police station.
‘Ready for a trip to Wendover, then, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of finally bringing Sir Royston Naylor to book. But there was a surprise in store for the detectives.
The young woman who answered the door of Kingsley Hall was attired in riding breeches, knee boots and a grey woollen jumper-blouse, and her long blonde hair was dressed into a single plait. For some moments she studied the two bowler-hatted men without comment.
‘Good morning, madam,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’m—’
‘My lady,’ corrected the woman haughtily. ‘I’m addressed as my lady. And I’m not looking for a butler or a footman, thank you very much. We got rid of Drake and his wife and we’ve found replacements who’ll be starting next week. Anyway, how did you know there was a vacancy?’
‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Metropolitan Police, and this here’s Detective Sergeant Marriott. I presume you’re Lady Naylor.’ She certainly appeared to be about the 25 years of age that Drake had said she was. But the butler had also described her as a nervous type who was terrified of Zeppelins. The woman standing in front of Hardcastle now did not seem to fit that description. In fact, she seemed very confident of herself, and was a well-built attractive woman, albeit somewhat coarse of feature.
‘I am Lady Henrietta, yes, and what do the police want with me, might I ask?’
‘It’s not you I wanted to talk to, Lady Naylor, but with Sir Royston.’ Hardcastle did not subscribe to the erroneous form of address that Naylor used to his wife.
‘Well, Inspector, Sir Royston ain’t here, but I suppose you’d better come in.’ Lady Naylor spoke with an affected accent, and had used the word ‘ain’t’ in much the way that she imagined the upper classes, to which she aspired, would employ it.
The two detectives followed Kingsley Hall’s chatelaine into a richly furnished drawing room, the tall windows of which gave a magnificent view of the sweeping grounds to the rear of the house.
With an imperious wave of her hand, Lady Naylor invited Hardcastle and Marriott to sit down before taking a seat on a chesterfield opposite them. She took a cigarette from a silver box, and lit it with a table lighter. Emitting a plume of smoke, she crossed her legs and leaned back.
‘Well, what is it you policemen want?’
‘I’m anxious to discover where Sir Royston was last Thursday, Lady Naylor.’
‘Why?’
‘According to information received—’
Lady Naylor threw back her head and laughed. ‘That’s a nice policeman’s phrase,’ she said. ‘What’s it really mean?’
‘I have been told that Sir Royston might have witnessed a serious crime on Thursday, and I’d like to talk to him about it.’ Hardcastle was struggling with this interview. He had not expected to meet Lady Naylor, but had hoped to speak to Edward Drake, the butler. That Drake had now apparently been dismissed, along with his wife, had put the DDI in a difficult position.
‘I can tell you straight off that he couldn’t have seen anything. He came down here on Thursday morning and stayed until yesterday afternoon. He had to go back to London on account of his having important war work to deal with. Sir Royston is responsible for making army uniforms for our gallant lads at the Front.’
‘I see.’ Hardcastle harboured doubts about the alibi that Lady Naylor had provided for her husband.
‘Does Sir Royston have an apartment in London, Lady Naylor?’ Marriott was playing Hardcastle’s game; he knew that the Naylors had a house in Grosvenor Gardens, but was interested to see what Lady Naylor had to say.
‘If he has, it’s nothing to do with you.’ Lady Naylor appeared affronted at being addressed by a mere sergeant. ‘He always stays at his club when he’s in Town. It’s the Carlton, you know. It’s the club for all the bigwigs in the Conservative Party.’ The implication was that Naylor enjoyed the status of a Tory grandee.
‘Why did you sack your butler?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Unreliable,’ said Lady Naylor.
‘Oh? In what way?’
‘He kept disappearing, and I can’t abide unreliable staff.’
‘Most unfortunate,’ murmured Hardcastle. ‘Did he do it often?’
‘Often enough. There was the weekend of the twenty-third to the twenty-fifth of last month. He just vanished with no explanation. Sir Royston had a shooting party down here, too. It was most inconvenient, and we had to get a girl in from the village to help out.’
‘And you’ve no idea where Drake went, Lady Naylor?’
‘None,’ replied the woman. ‘When he turned up again on the Tuesday, I gave him his cards, and his wife. She wasn’t much of a cook despite always quoting that Mrs Beeton woman.’
‘I don’t wonder you got shot of them, then,’ said Hardcastle. It had not escaped his notice that, according to his late employer, Edward Drake had been absent from Kingsley Hall over the very period that Annie Kelly had been murdered. And yet, Drake had vouched for Sir Royston Naylor’s presence
that weekend, and had described the shooting party. It was beginning to look very much as though Drake was implicated in the murder of the Kelly girl, but why?
‘Now, if you’ve finished talking about my former butler, and you’ve nothing more to talk about, I’m about to go riding.’ Lady Naylor stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette and stood up.
Hardcastle maintained an air of sullen taciturnity for the entire journey back to London. Marriott had guessed that this might happen, and had had the foresight to buy a copy of the Daily Mirror at Wendover station to read on the train.
The DDI still persisted with his moody silence in the cab back to the police station, refraining for once from offering Marriott his usual advice about the confusion in cab drivers’ minds between Cannon Row in Westminster and Cannon Street in the City of London.
Acknowledging with a grunt the station officer’s report that all was correct, Hardcastle mounted the stairs to his office.
‘Come in, Marriott.’ The DDI sat down and reached for his pipe.
‘Not a very successful trip, sir,’ ventured Marriott, somewhat apprehensively.
‘That bloody woman knows something, Marriott. She knew why we were asking about Naylor, but she trumped us. What the hell made him go down to Wendover on a Thursday morning, eh?’
‘I don’t think he did, sir,’ said Marriott.
‘Of course he didn’t,’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘Why would he do that? She’s giving him an alibi, that’s what that’s all about.’
‘We could let Wood have a word with Naylor’s chauffeur, sir,’ suggested Marriott.
‘No, he’d only tell his guv’nor, and I don’t want Naylor alerted. Mind you, Her Ladyship’s probably done that already.’
‘What about this story of Lady Naylor’s that Drake disappeared at the very time that Annie Kelly was topped, sir?’
‘Flimflam, Marriott. On the other hand,’ continued Hardcastle thoughtfully, ‘it’s just possible that Drake did the deed. If Sir Royston paid him enough to make his troubles go away. If it was Naylor who put Annie Kelly in the family way, that is.’
‘And if Lady Naylor’s right about Drake being adrift during the weekend that Annie was topped, we don’t know where he was when Lady Sarah Millard was done in.’
‘No, we don’t, Marriott, but I’m not having it. That bastard Naylor’s in this business up to his neck.’ The DDI spent a few moments filling his pipe and lighting it. ‘Fetch Wood and Carter in here; that Carter seems to have his head screwed on the right way.’
‘You wanted us, sir?’ enquired DS Herbert Wood, as he and DC Gordon Carter appeared in the DDI’s office.
‘Yes, Wood. Hilda, Lady Naylor, what calls herself Lady Henrietta, is married to Sir Royston Naylor who you arrested in what you might call interesting circumstances.’ Hardcastle afforded Wood a wry smile. ‘I want you and Carter to find out everything you can about her. Don’t leave any stone unturned, so to speak. And be discreet about it. That Lady Naylor is one cunning woman.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Wood. ‘How soon d’you want to know?’
‘Yesterday,’ exclaimed Hardcastle, and waved a hand of dismissal.
On Tuesday morning, Hardcastle made another surprise announcement. ‘I think we’ll go down to Woolwich and have a word with Major Millard, Marriott.’
‘D’you think he might’ve had something to do with the death of his wife, sir?’ Once again, Marriott was taken aback at this latest twist in the DDI’s thinking. ‘I mean, he was at the Front when Annie Kelly was topped.’
‘I’m not suggesting he had anything to do with Annie Kelly, Marriott. Only that he might’ve done for his missus.’
‘But what possible motive could he have had?’
‘She got him demoted, Marriott, indirectly of course, and a juicy divorce would do his career even more harm than it’s been done already.’
‘I suppose we’d better go down to Woolwich and find out, then, sir,’ said Marriott, resigned to what he thought would be another wasted excursion. He did not think that there was anything to be gained by interviewing Millard, but as the DDI would be the first to point out, it would be a neglect of duty not to do so.
It was almost noon when Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at the guardroom of the Royal Artillery Barracks in Repository Road, Woolwich.
A bombardier stood up as the two bowler-hatted detectives entered. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked, adding the ‘sir’ because he was unsure who the newcomers were, and it was better to be safe than incur the wrath of two commissioned officers.
‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, Bombardier.’ Hardcastle had learned from Marriott that a Gunner NCO with a two-bar chevron was not addressed as ‘corporal’.
‘Who was you wishing to see, Inspector?’
‘Major Millard,’ said Hardcastle.
‘I’ll try the officers’ mess first, on account of he’s likely in for lunch. One moment.’ The bombardier made a telephone call, and after a brief conversation replaced the receiver. ‘He’s there, Inspector.’ He crossed to an open door that led to the cell passage. ‘Knocker, come out here.’
A soldier appeared. ‘Yes, Bomb?’
‘Take these two policemen across to the officers’ mess, Knocker. They want to have a word with Major Millard.’ The bombardier turned to Hardcastle. ‘Gunner White will escort you, Inspector.’
After following Gunner White through the complex design of the barracks, the two detectives eventually arrived at the mess.
‘May I help you, gentlemen?’ asked a young subaltern, seeing two strangers in the entrance hall.
‘I’d like a word with Major Millard,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I was told at the guardroom that I’d find him here.’
‘He’s in the anteroom. I’ll show you the way.’
‘Do all right for themselves here, don’t they, Marriott?’ whispered Hardcastle, gazing around in awe at the sumptuous furnishings, and at some of the mess silver that was displayed in cabinets, as he and Marriott followed the young officer into the anteroom.
‘Two visitors for you, Hugo,’ said the subaltern.
Millard put down a copy of The Times and stood up. ‘Ah, I do believe it’s Inspector Hardcastle,’ he said, ‘and what brings you all the way to Woolwich?’
‘You do, Major.’
‘I thought so. You want to talk about the death of my wife, I suppose.’
‘Among other things, Major.’
‘Take a seat. May I get you a drink?’
‘No thank you,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Where were you on Thursday the nineteenth and Friday the twentieth of this month, Major Millard?’
‘My word, you cut to the chase very quickly, Inspector. Are you thinking that I had something to do with her murder?’
‘Perhaps you’d just answer the question, Major.’
‘Easily,’ said Hugo Millard. ‘I was duty field officer all last week. Confined to barracks, as you might say.’
‘Is there anyone who can confirm that, sir?’ asked Marriott.
‘Indeed there is.’ Millard crossed to a nearby table, and spoke briefly to a lieutenant-colonel who was sipping a whisky and reading a copy of The Field. Moments later the two officers joined Hardcastle and Marriott.
‘This is Colonel Orton, my commanding officer, Inspector,’ said Millard as the two CID officers stood up. He turned to Orton. ‘Perhaps you’d be so good as to tell Inspector Hardcastle what I was doing last week, Colonel.’
‘Hugo was field officer of the week, Inspector. He was in barracks for the entire seven days.’ Orton wore a puzzled look. ‘Might I enquire why you want to know?’
But it was Millard who replied. ‘I think the inspector is labouring under the misapprehension that I’d murdered my wife, Colonel.’
‘Oh I see.’ Orton laughed and returned to his table. He clearly thought that Millard was joking.
‘Now we’ve got that out of the way, Inspector, are you any nearer finding who murdered Sa
rah?’
‘I have one or two irons in the fire, Major Millard,’ said Hardcastle stiffly. He had no intention of telling the artillery officer that suspicion had now turned to Drake, mainly because he was far from convinced that the Naylors’ former butler was involved.
‘I’m pleased to hear it, Inspector. I have to tell you, though, that marrying Sarah Rankin was all a terrible mistake: a heady romance arising out of summer balls and punting on the river, and a marriage entered into in haste at the outbreak of war.’ Millard shook his head at the pointlessness of it all. ‘And now it’s over. All it really achieved was losing me a Bath star.’ He pointed casually at the cuff of his tunic, now bearing but a solitary crown.
FOURTEEN
That afternoon, Detective Inspector Charles Stockley Collins called on Hardcastle.
‘I found a few fingerprints in the Millard girl’s apartment, Ernie, but nothing that compares with anything in our records.’
‘Didn’t expect that you would, Charlie,’ said Hardcastle.
‘One set I found belonged to the caretaker, but that’s to be expected. And another set were Lady Sarah’s. There were a few prints on the locker beside the bed where the body was found. I don’t know whose they were, but it looked as though someone had placed his hand flat on the locker to steady himself.’
‘Could be the murderer, I suppose,’ said Hardcastle gloomily, ‘but I shan’t know until I’ve nicked him. But I still favour them being Sir Royston’s.’
It was a frenetic forty-eight hours for Wood and Carter, during which time they slept very little.
Their priority was to find the public house closest to Naylor’s Edmonton clothing factory, and that evening they found one called The Angel, appropriately in Angel Road. As Wood had anticipated there were several girls there who worked for Sir Royston. Fortunately, they proved to be very forward young women.
‘Not often we see two well set-up gents like you in here,’ said one young girl, brazenly starting a conversation.
‘Thought we’d come in for a drink seeing as how there were so many pretty girls in here,’ said Wood.