by Graham Ison
‘Well, you’ve come to the right place, love. My name’s Maisie by the way. What’s yours?’
‘Bert,’ said Wood, ‘and this is my mate Gordon,’ he added, indicating Carter.
‘And what do you two do to earn a crust, love?’
‘Civil service,’ said Wood tersely, not wishing to disclose that he and Carter were police officers. ‘Just finished work, have you?’
‘Yeah, thank Gawd.’
‘What d’you do for a living, then, Maisie?’
‘Make uniforms for the army, don’t we, and me fingers is raw from pushing the stuff into the machines. I dunno how soldiers manage to wear it. Likely take all the skin off of ’em, I wouldn’t wonder, poor buggers.’
‘Still, the pay’s all right, I suppose,’ said Wood. ‘Being war work.’
‘All right?’ scoffed Maisie. ‘No it bloody ain’t, not working for that skinflint Naylor. And you have to watch yerself, an’ all. Very free with his hands is Naylor.’
‘Is he the boss, then, this Naylor?’
‘Yes, Sir Royston bloody Naylor. And he fancies hisself, an’ all.’
‘D’you mean he likes the ladies?’ queried Carter, joining in the conversation.
‘Not arf. If you feels a hand on yer arse, it’s sure to be the guv’nor’s. ’Ere, Ethel, come over ’ere,’ she said to a nearby comely wench who was holding a glass of port and lemon.
The girl called Ethel joined them, and cast a lingering glance at the two detectives. ‘Found yourself a man, then, Maze? ’Bout time an’ all. You want to watch her, mister,’ she said to Wood. ‘On the lookout for a beau is our Maze. Any man’ll do,’ she added with a coarse cackle.
‘Never mind all that daft talk, Ethel. Tell ’em about Naylor’s hands.’
‘I’ve had ’em all over me,’ said the girl in matter-of-fact tones. ‘One minute you’re working away at the machine and the next thing you know is him having a feel of yer tits. Him a married man an’ all.’
‘I’ll bet his wife doesn’t know about that,’ said Gordon Carter.
‘Know about it!’ exclaimed Ethel. ‘How d’you think she landed him? Hilda Mullen was one of us, but she never objected to him having a feel. In fact, if anything, she played up to him. Next thing we know she’s transferred up the office, and in no time at all she’s on her way to a church wedding. By way of his bedroom, I wouldn’t wonder.’
The following day, Wood renewed his acquaintanceship with Naylor’s chauffeur, and garnered a little more information.
‘Still shuffling backwards and forwards to the Carlton Club, mate?’ he asked, crossing the road from the tram stop.
‘Gets bloody boring, guv’nor, I can tell you,’ said the chauffeur, confiding that his name was Sam.
‘I see there was a bit in the paper about him the other day. Got mixed up with some army officer’s wife.’
Sam laughed. ‘That’s the guv’nor all right. Always has an eye for the girls, does Sir Royston.’
‘So it seems,’ said Wood. ‘No wonder he keeps his wife tucked away in the country.’
‘If you knew her, you wouldn’t blame him,’ said Sam. ‘A right cow, that one. She used to work in his factory, you know. Came from Brighton, so I hear.’
That piece of information caused the two detectives to take a trip to the coast where they were able to add a little more to their rapidly increasing knowledge of Lady Naylor.
What they learned at the Sussex seaside resort meant that most of Wednesday was spent at the General Register Office at Somerset House in the Strand where births, marriages and deaths were recorded. The DDI had implied, somewhat forcefully, that the enquiries about Lady Naylor were to be made as quickly as possible, but it was not until half past five on the Wednesday that DS Wood reported back. But the delay was grudgingly acceptable to Hardcastle; he knew that Wood was a good enquiry officer. Not that he would ever tell him.
‘Well, Wood, what’ve you found out?’
‘I’ve prepared a report, sir,’ said Wood, offering a sheaf of paper.
‘I should hope you have, Wood, but sit down and give me the bare bones.’
‘Lady Naylor was born Hilda Mullen in Brighton on the twenty-sixth of January 1891, sir. She went to a school in the area, and did a lot of sea swimming. According to one or two of the local people we spoke to, she was very keen on it, and very good at it.’
‘Yes, she looked a fit young woman,’ commented Hardcastle. ‘She was just off horse riding when Sergeant Marriott and me saw her on Monday.’
‘When she was thirteen, she got a job as a scullery maid at a big house in Preston Park, travelling there every day on a bicycle from where she lived in the centre of Brighton,’ continued Wood, after referring to his notes. ‘But she got the sack for thieving.’ Anticipating the DDI’s next question, Wood added, ‘But she wasn’t prosecuted, sir, so there’s nothing in records. When she was fifteen, that was in 1906, she went to London, to Edmonton, and got a job in the clothing factory there.’
‘So, that’s where she met Naylor, I suppose,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Yes, sir, but not until five years later when he bought the factory.’ Wood went on to tell the DDI what he and Carter had learned from Maisie and Ethel, the two factory girls they had met in the Angel Arms at Edmonton. ‘Sir Royston was a widower; his first wife died in 1912, apparently from consumption.’
‘A carney little trollop, this Hilda Mullen, then, Wood.’
‘So it would seem, sir. I’ve found out a bit more about Sir Royston, too. He bought the factory in 1911 when it was going downhill. But the war saved the business from going under when he got a contract from the War Office in 1914 for the manufacture of army uniforms. Not only did he make a lot of money, some of which went into the right pockets, if you take my drift, sir, but he got his knighthood last year.’
‘You mean he greased a few palms as a way to getting a title.’
‘That seems to be the general view from various people I’ve spoken to, sir, yes.’
‘And I’ve no doubt that Lady Naylor will do anything she can to hold on to Royston Naylor no matter what he gets up to. She certainly seemed to enjoy being lady of the manor. What’s more, I’m bloody sure she’s giving her husband an alibi, and from what you say, he likes to have a tumble with any woman who’s willing. I suppose she puts up with it, so she can carry on being called Her Ladyship.’
‘That’s the impression I got from the girls who worked with Lady Naylor, sir, when she was Hilda Mullen.’
‘And now she calls herself Lady Henrietta, be damned,’ scoffed Hardcastle. ‘The cheek of the woman. Anyway, well done, Wood,’ he said, once again breaking his rule of complimenting a junior officer.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Wood, somewhat taken aback by this rare word of praise.
‘I’ve had an idea, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, the moment he arrived at the police station on Thursday morning.
‘You have, sir?’ Marriott was always wary of the DDI’s announcements that he had ‘had an idea’.
‘I want Edward Drake found. If Lady Naylor’s to be believed, though I’m not sure I do believe her, he might have had something to do with our two murders. If he’d topped them as a favour to Sir Royston, he might’ve been paid enough to vanish once the deed was done, so to speak. On the other hand, and assuming for a moment he’s innocent, I’m sure he could tell us a thing or two now he’s free of the shackles of Kingsley Hall.’
‘I’ll have a word with the local village bobby, sir. They usually know everything that’s happening on their manor.’
‘I suppose there’s an outside chance that he might be able to tell you something,’ said Hardcastle sceptically. He had no great opinion of other police forces, but his severest condemnation was reserved for the City of London Police, the force that dominated the square mile in the centre of the Metropolitan Police District. In the DDI’s view, its existence was nothing short of impertinence, and an interference in the policing of London. ‘Be a good idea i
f you went down there, Marriott. You’re more likely to get him to open up than if you talk to him on that telephone thing.’
‘The police house in Kingsley, please,’ said Marriott, as he boarded the waiting taxi at Wendover railway station.
‘Ah, you’re that policeman from London, sir. I thought I recognized you, the minute you come through the ticket barrier,’ said the cab driver. ‘I took you and that other policeman to Kingsley Hall a couple of times, didn’t I?’
‘Yes,’ said Marriott, and unwilling to offer any explanation for his return, lapsed into silence. Cab drivers were notorious for spreading gossip, and it was bad enough that news of renewed police interest in the occupants of ‘the Hall’, as it was known locally, would be circulating within the hour.
The police house, a double-fronted cottage, was on the fringe of the village of Kingsley. Only a blue lamp and the word POLICE on the roof of the porch, distinguished it from its neighbours.
Marriott removed his bowler hat as he stepped through the open door. Seated behind a desk was a woman in her forties. She had a pencil pushed into her hair, and there was a pile of papers in front of her.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said the woman, glancing up.
‘Good morning, ma’am. I’m Detective Sergeant Marriott of the Whitehall Division of the Metropolitan Police. Is the constable at home?’
‘Not at the moment, Mr Marriott, but he’s bound to be in shortly for his dinner. I’m Mavis Cordell, his wife. I expect you could use a cup of tea seeing as how you’ve come all the way up from London. Whitehall, you say?’ She made it sound as though Marriott had just arrived from the moon.
‘That’s very kind, Mrs Cordell, thank you,’ said Marriott. ‘A cup of tea would be most welcome.’
‘I’ve just been filing some of my Jack’s reports, and doing the weekly return for the inspector at divisional headquarters in Wendover,’ said Mavis Cordell, ‘but I’m about finished. Come into the parlour and make yourself comfortable while I make the tea,’ she added, removing the pencil from her hair and leading the way into a comfortable sitting room.
It was well known, and indeed expected, that the wives of village policemen in the county constabularies acted as unpaid deputies. As such they frequently dealt with members of the public, often solving their domestic problems without resort to their husbands, and recording details of petty crime.
No sooner had Mrs Cordell served Marriott with tea and biscuits than Jack Cordell arrived. He was a large red-faced man with a flowing moustache who appeared old enough to be approaching the end of his service.
‘Mavis tells me you’re from London, Sergeant.’ Cordell extended a hand and seized Marriott’s in a vice-like grip before sitting down, unbuttoning his tunic and removing the bicycle clips from his trousers. ‘You’ll find we do things a bit different down here and no mistake.’
‘I’m sure you do, Mr Cordell, and I’m hoping that your local knowledge might help me out,’ said Marriott. ‘I trust I can speak to you in confidence,’ he added, not wishing to waste too much time.
‘Of course you can, Sergeant, and the name’s Jack, by the way. Anything you have to tell me stays between these four walls.’ Cordell removed a pipe from the inner recesses of his tunic, and began to fill it with tobacco.
‘It’s more a case of what you can tell me, Jack,’ said Marriott.
‘Fire away, then, Sergeant, and I’ll do what I can to help you.’ Cordell spoke between puffs as he lit his pipe.
‘My guv’nor, DDI Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, is interested in Sir Royston Naylor and his wife. I won’t go into details, but it’s important that we find out what we can about them.’
‘Ah, the folks up at the Hall,’ said Cordell, tugging briefly at his moustache. ‘I make a routine visit there from time to time, but they never seem glad to see me.’ He stood up. ‘If it’s all the same to you, Sergeant, I’ll get Mavis to come in. She knows quite a lot about the Naylors, and she can be trusted, being of the cloth as you might say.’
‘By all means, Jack.’ Marriott knew from previous contact with village policemen that the wife knew as much, and sometimes more, about the goings-on in the bailiwick for which her husband was responsible.
Cordell opened the door of the parlour and shouted for his wife. ‘Sergeant Marriott’s interested in the Naylors up at the Hall, Mavis,’ he said, once his wife had joined them.
‘Made a lot of money out of the war, has that Royston Naylor,’ said Mavis Cordell as she sat down and arranged her skirt. ‘And as for his wife, well, she’s got ideas above her station, and that’s a fact.’
‘So I believe,’ said Marriott, intrigued by the openness of the PC’s wife.
‘Lady Muck they calls her in the village, Mr Marriott, and her only a factory girl afore she got wed to Sir Royston, and she’s half his age. She’s a proper madam, and full of hoity-toity airs and graces, but in truth she’s no better than she ought to be. And another thing: she always comes down to the shop on her horse. Showing off, I call it. What’s more she dresses in men’s riding breeches and sits her nag astride. I’ve never seen the like of it. Well, that’s not what you expect of a lady. All the real ladies round here ride side-saddle. Them as still has horses, of course. The army has taken most of them for the war effort.’
‘I understand that Sir Royston recently sacked his butler.’ Marriott was amused by Mrs Cordell’s assessment of what constituted a lady, but wished to get on with his enquiry with as little delay as possible.
‘That wasn’t Sir Royston’s doing,’ said Cordell, laying down his pipe and taking a sip of his tea. ‘It was Her Ladyship who gave poor old Ted Drake and his wife the push. From what I hear, Lady Naylor couldn’t stand having him around. Reckoned he had superior ways, whatever that meant. Funny that, considering how she carries on.’
‘Have you any idea when the Drakes were dismissed, Jack?’
Cordell picked up his pipe and scratched his moustache with the stem. ‘Towards the end of September, I seem to recall,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘As a matter of fact, Ted dropped in here to say goodbye. Blooming shame, really. He was there before the Naylors arrived, you know. I reckon he’d been in service up at the Hall for nigh-on twenty years. Started off as second footman, and finished up as butler, but that was when the old viscount was there. Now he was a real gentleman, was his lordship.’
‘Have you any idea where they went after they were dismissed, Jack?’ Marriott asked.
‘They went up to London.’ Cordell stood up and crossed to a small bureau. ‘I’ve got the address here somewhere, Sergeant.’ After a brief search he produced a piece of paper. ‘Yes, here we are. Him and Gladys took rooms in some place called Ufford Street in Lambeth. I s’pose you’d know where that is, being a London copper.’
Marriott smiled. ‘Not necessarily, Jack. London’s a big place.’
‘Aye, I s’pose so. Never been there myself, but perhaps Mavis and me will have a trip up there once I retire, and when the war’s over. Any road, to get back to Ted, he reckoned he’d saved a bit to tide him over, and said that him and his missus stood a better chance of getting a position in the Smoke. Personally I’d’ve stayed well clear of London what with the bombs and that, but if you’re out of work I suppose you’ve got to go where it is.’
‘I’ll take a note of that address,’ said Marriott, taking out his pocketbook.
‘I don’t know what else I can tell you, really, Sergeant,’ said Cordell.
‘I’ve heard that Sir Royston hosted shooting parties from time to time, Jack.’
‘Ay, that he does. In the season, of course. Last one was the end of September, just before Ted Drake got the sack.’
‘Was Ted Drake there that weekend?’ asked Marriott.
‘Bound to have been,’ said Cordell. ‘They’d never have given him time off when something like that was going on. Any road, him and his missus lived-in at the Hall, and I’ve never known them go anywhere on their days off.’ The PC seemed mystified by
Marriott’s question. ‘Naylor fancies himself as quite the country squire, having a butler at his beck and call, but between you and me, Sergeant, he’s not the gent he’d have you believe. Even so, there’s talk round the village of him getting made a lord. Mind you, what with Sir Royston being a Tory, and Asquith being a Whig, I don’t give much for his chances. But he certainly has some highfalutin guests down here, wining and dining them. Charlie Webster, who does a bit of beating for Naylor, reckons there’s quite a few turn up at the Hall what’ve got handles to their names. Certainly gives Her Ladyship the chance of lording it.’
‘What did you find out?’ asked Hardcastle when Marriott returned to the police station at about three o’clock that afternoon.
‘Quite a lot of the information came from Mrs Cordell, who seems to act as a sort of part-time constable, sir. Doing the paperwork, filing reports and dealing with callers.’
‘Does she indeed?’ Hardcastle scoffed. ‘If I asked Mrs H to give me a hand out solving a murder, I’d get a very dusty answer, Marriott.’
‘I don’t think I’d get much help from my missus either, sir,’ said Marriott, before going on to tell Hardcastle what he had gleaned from PC Cordell and his wife. ‘He also told me that Drake and his wife have taken rooms in Ufford Street, Lambeth, while they look for work.’
‘That’s not far from where I live,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I think we’ll go and see Drake at this here Lambeth drum of his, and see what he’s got to tell us.’
‘D’you intend to go now, sir?’ asked Marriott, who was feeling somewhat tired after his excursion to Buckinghamshire.
‘Nothing like striking while the iron’s hot, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, donning his hat and coat, and picking up his umbrella.
Ufford Street, a turning off Blackfriars Road in Lambeth, consisted of terraced dwellings occupied for the most part by those in lower managerial positions, or who were bookkeepers or clerks.
Hardcastle knocked at the door of the house where PC Cordell had told Marriott that Drake was living.