by Graham Ison
‘I understand that you left immediately, Mr Pearce,’ said Marriott.
‘In a manner of speaking, sir, yes. I told Her Ladyship that I’d had enough of her language, and was leaving her employment forthwith, and I went up to my quarters and began packing.’
‘What was her reaction to that?’
‘She said something like good riddance, larded with a few more obscenities, which was no more than I expected from her.’
‘Was she still there when you left?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘No, sir. It took me quite some time to get my things together. I intended to return later to pack my trunk, but I needed a few things because I was going to stay for a day or two with my sister and her husband in Pimlico. Anyway, when I’d finished I went back downstairs, and Lady Naylor had gone. Mrs Hampton said she’d had dinner and left at about half past nine.’
‘Any idea where she went, Mr Pearce?’ asked Marriott.
‘I’m afraid not, sir. Her Ladyship always played her cards close to her chest. The last thing she’d do is to tell the servants what she was up to. And that was half the trouble. In a well-ordered household your employers always tell you their plans. It’s only civil, otherwise you can’t prepare rooms and meals, and that sort of thing.’
‘Well, thank you for that information, Mr Pearce. It’s been very helpful. We’ll not detain you any longer.’
‘I hope I’ve been of some assistance, sir,’ said Pearce, rising to his feet. ‘I’ll just let Mr Kitchen know you’re leaving.’
Cedric Kitchen appeared in the hall as Hardcastle and Marriott were donning their hats and coats.
‘Was Pearce able to help, Hardcastle?’
‘Indeed, sir. Another piece of the jigsaw, so to speak.’
Kitchen shook hands with each of the detectives. ‘Don’t doubt I’ll see you down at the Bailey one day soon, Hardcastle.’
For most of the taxi journey back to Cannon Row police station, Hardcastle had remained in contemplative silence. But just before he and Marriott arrived, the DDI gave voice to his thoughts.
‘You’re going down to Kingsley tomorrow, aren’t you, Marriott?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott knew perfectly well that Hardcastle was aware that he was.
‘See if you can find out if Lady Naylor arrived at Wendover railway station on the evening of Sunday the twenty-fourth of September. It might be as well if you got that local PC . . . what’s his name?’
‘Cordell, sir. Jack Cordell.’
‘Yes, well, get him to have a word with the local taxi drivers and see if any of them picked up Lady Naylor that evening. Your man Cordell is more likely to persuade these cabbies to speak out than if you asked them.’
At ten o’clock the following morning, Marriott, Wood and Albert Jackson set off from Waterloo railway station. At Wendover, the same cab was waiting on the rank.
‘My word, guv’nor,’ said the driver, ‘you coppers are spending a lot of time down here.’
‘As a matter of fact, we’ve come to make an arrest.’ said Marriott.
‘Really?’ The cab driver turned in his seat, an expression of consuming interest on his face.
‘Yes,’ continued Marriott, ‘we’re investigating someone who’s been blabbing to people in pubs about police business. That’s a very serious matter, of course. Under the Defence of the Realm Act he could finish up spending a couple of years in chokey.’ Marriott accompanied his empty threat with a sinister smile; Hardcastle would have been proud of him.
‘Oh!’ exclaimed the driver, and putting the taxi into gear drove off somewhat jerkily.
When the cab delivered the little party of Londoners at the police house, Marriott told the driver to wait.
In shirtsleeves and uniform trousers, Jack Cordell, the Kingsley village constable, was in his garden staking his dahlias when Marriott, Wood and Jackson approached. He stood up and brushed the soil from his hands and knees as he recognized the Metropolitan Police officer.
‘Hello, Sergeant. What brings you back to Kingsley?’
‘The Naylors,’ said Marriott, and introduced DS Wood and Albert Jackson.
Cordell shook hands with the two sergeants, and was about to do the same with Jackson when he noticed that the man’s right arm was missing.
Jackson laughed. ‘It’s all right, guv’nor,’ he said. ‘I’m quite used to using the other one now.’
Somewhat awkwardly Cordell shook the old soldier’s left hand.
‘There is one thing, Jack,’ said Marriott. ‘My guv’nor’s keen to know if any of the local cabbies picked up Lady Naylor from Wendover railway station late on Sunday the twenty-fourth of September. I kept the taxi hanging on in case you wanted to talk to the driver.’
‘Leave it to me, Sergeant,’ said Cordell, and strode across to the waiting cab.
Sighting the constable, the taxi driver immediately leaped out. ‘Good morning, Mr Cordell.’
‘It’s Jim Charlton, isn’t it?’ asked Cordell, ignoring the driver’s outstretched hand.
‘That’s me, Mr Cordell.’ The cabbie began to look apprehensive.
‘Whose taxi was on duty on Sunday the twenty-fourth of September, Charlton?’
‘That was me,’ said Charlton.
‘And did you pick up Lady Naylor and take her to Kingsley Hall?’
‘Half a mo,’ said Charlton, and reached through the window of his cab to pick up his log. After a moment or two thumbing through it, he looked up. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I did, Mr Cordell.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Just before midnight. She must’ve caught the last train from London.’
Cordell turned to Marriott. ‘Anything else you want to know, Sergeant?’
Marriott drew the constable aside, out of Charlton’s hearing. ‘Ask him if he picked up Her Ladyship on the evening of Thursday the nineteenth of October as well, Jack.’
Cordell turned back to Charlton, and repeated Marriott’s question.
Once again, Charlton referred to his log. ‘Yes, I did. She must’ve caught the last train again.’
‘Right,’ said Cordell, ‘and you won’t mention this to anyone, particularly anyone up at the Hall. Understood?’ The PC glared at Charlton. ‘Because if you do, my lad, you’ll not only lose your licence for disclosing confidential police information, you might just lose your liberty too.’
‘Not a word, on my life,’ said the terrified cab driver.
‘Thank you, Jack,’ said Marriott, when Cordell relayed this latest piece of vital information. ‘Just what I wanted to know.’ He was having difficulty in suppressing his excitement at what he had just learned. He paid off the cab and sent a worried Charlton about his business.
‘Come inside, gentlemen, and I’ll get Mavis to make a cup of tea. Then, while you’re having that, you can tell me what else I can do for you.’
While Mavis Cordell was dispensing tea and biscuits, Marriott explained why he and Wood had brought Albert Jackson to Kingsley.
‘It should be easy enough, Jack,’ Marriott continued. ‘All we need to do is find Mr Jackson somewhere where he can have a sight of Lady Naylor.’
‘Shouldn’t be too difficult, Sergeant.’ Cordell turned to his wife. ‘What day is it that Her Ladyship comes down to the village shop, Mavis?’
‘Every day as far as I know,’ said the PC’s wife. ‘She does like showing herself off, does that one.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘You might be lucky if you take a stroll down there as soon as you’ve finished your tea. She usually shows up about dinner time, and word is that she sometimes goes into the Kingsley Arms for a wet.’ Mavis sniffed. ‘I ask you, a real lady would never go into a public house on her own, if then, but I suppose because she’s married to Sir Royston she thinks the rules don’t apply to her.’
Their tea hurriedly consumed, Jack Cordell stood up. ‘If it suits you, we’ll take a stroll down there now, Sergeant,’ he said to Marriott. ‘It’s only a five-minute walk.’
&
nbsp; ‘If it’s all the same to you, Jack, I think I’d better stay here. You see, I’ve met Lady Naylor before, and if she spots me she might recognize me and wonder what I’m doing here. So I’ll leave Sergeant Wood and Mr Jackson to go with you.’
The village of Kingsley was typical of many within a day’s journey from London. Opposite the Kingsley Arms was the village green in the centre of which was a lake, home to a few ducks and a proliferation of pond life. There were a few shops on either side of the inn, among them a general store, a post office, a saddler, a chandler, and a gunsmith.
‘I dare say you gentlemen could do with a wet while we’re waiting.’ Cordell took off his striped duty armlet and slipped it into his pocket. ‘If we go in the saloon bar, we’ll have a good view of the road outside.’ He took off his helmet and ducked through the low doorway of the inn.
‘Good day, Jack.’ The landlord was a huge man in a red waistcoat with brass buttons, his loss of hair compensated by bushy black sideburns. As a preamble to serving his customers, he wiped the top of the bar with a cloth.
‘Good day to you, Josh. Three pints of your best, if you please.’
After DS Wood had insisted on paying for the beer, the two policemen and Jackson found a table by the window, and settled themselves with their tankards of ale.
They did not have long to wait. Twenty minutes later, and after another round of beer, they were treated to the sight of Lady Naylor on horseback stopping outside the inn. Attired as usual in men’s riding breeches, and a woollen sweater, the hatless Lady Naylor dismounted, tethered her horse to a lamp post, and entered the general store.
‘That’s Her Ladyship,’ said Cordell.
‘Well, Bert, have you seen her before?’ asked Wood.
‘I should say I have,’ said Jackson adamantly. ‘She was always calling at Washbourne Street. Afore it was bombed, like.’
‘What?’ Wood was unable to conceal his astonishment. ‘What on earth was she doing there?’
‘She reckoned as how she was the landlord’s agent come to inspect the property and collect the rent.’
‘Well, who’s the landlord?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Jackson.
‘A pound to a pinch of snuff it’s Sir Royston Naylor,’ muttered Wood.
‘Any luck?’ asked Marriott, when the trio returned to the police house.
Wood repeated what Jackson had told him, but Marriott gave the impression of being uninterested in this piece of information. He had no wish to attach any importance to Jackson’s revelation in the ex-soldier’s presence.
‘I’ve no doubt there’s a reasonable explanation,’ said Marriott, ‘but we’ll get back to London and have a word with the guv’nor, although I doubt he’ll be much interested.’ He turned to Cordell. ‘Thanks for your help, Jack. I think we’ll be getting on our way.’
‘If there’s anything else I can help you with, you know where I am, Sergeant,’ said Cordell.
Marriott, Wood and Jackson left the police house and strolled towards the centre of the village.
‘I think we’ll have a pint and a sandwich at the pub, and then find ourselves a train back to the Smoke,’ said Marriott.
SEVENTEEN
‘Well?’ barked Hardcastle, when the two sergeants presented themselves in his office.
‘What you might call a profitable day, sir,’ said Marriott, and went on to relate what they had gleaned from their visit to Kingsley.
‘And this here cab driver Charlton was sure that he collected Lady Naylor from Wendover railway station on the nights of the two murders, is he?’
‘I’d no doubt that he was telling the truth, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘I got the impression that Jack Cordell frightened the life out of him.’
‘Quite right and proper,’ commented Hardcastle. ‘Sounds like a good policeman, and him only a country copper, too.’
Marriott said nothing, for fear of setting Hardcastle off on one of his critical comments about provincial police forces.
‘So, who owned this Washbourne Street house, Marriott? Before Fritz knocked it down, that is,’ continued Hardcastle.
‘I’ve already sent Catto to City Hall in Charing Cross Road to find out, sir,’ said Marriott, having anticipated that that would be Hardcastle’s next question.
‘Well, where is he?’ As ever Hardcastle was impatient to get on with the investigation. ‘That sort of enquiry doesn’t take all day.’
‘I’ll see if he’s back yet, sir.’ Marriott crossed the corridor to the detectives’ office, returning moments later with Catto.
‘Well, Catto, solved this problem for me, have you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Catto, for once confident that he had the answer that the DDI was expecting. ‘The owner of one-forty-three Washbourne Street is Sir Royston Naylor of Grosvenor Gardens.’
‘Hah!’ Hardcastle smote the top of his desk with the flat of his hand. ‘I think we’re getting somewhere at last, Marriott.’
‘But there’s more, sir,’ said Catto.
‘More? I hope you haven’t been overdoing it, Catto. I don’t want to see your name appearing in Police Orders as discharged worn out.’
Catto risked a grin at Hardcastle’s little joke. ‘While I was at City Hall I found out that Sir Royston Naylor owns two other properties in Washbourne Street. Numbers one-forty to one-forty-two on the opposite side of the road.’
‘Well done, lad,’ said Hardcastle, once again breaking his rule about not commending junior officers.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Catto was astonished at receiving a word of praise from the DDI.
‘All right, Catto, don’t stand there grinning like a Cheshire cat. I’m sure you’ve got work to do.’
‘What do we do next, sir?’ asked Marriott, once the delighted Catto had departed. ‘Arrest Lady Naylor?’
‘No, Marriott, we arrest ’em both.’ Hardcastle rubbed his hands together. ‘But we’ve got to arrange it so that we catch the pair of ’em at the same time.’ He lapsed into silence, pondering the problem. ‘An observation,’ he said finally.
‘Where, sir? In London or at Kingsley?’
‘In London, Marriott. I’m not wasting time sending Wood down there just to follow the damned woman back here when she decides to come up and collect the rent. And I don’t want her nicked on a county constabulary’s patch; it makes for complications.’ Hardcastle turned to DS Wood. ‘Find out from your mate Albert Jackson which day of the week Her Ladyship comes up to collect the rents, Wood.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard the like of it: a titled woman going about collecting rents,’ he said. ‘I suppose she don’t trust a rent collector in case he pockets some of the takings. Frightened of the Zeppelins, be damned. The only thing she’s frightened of is that someone might not pay up.’
‘Jackson told Wood that Lady Naylor usually comes up to London of a Friday evening, sir,’ said Marriott on Wednesday morning. ‘He reckons that she likes to get there after the menfolk have been paid, but before they have time to piss their wages up the wall of a local boozer.’
‘Seems there’s some advantage after all for Sir Royston having got wed to a factory wench, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘She knows first-hand how the working classes live, being one of ’em, so to speak.’
‘I’ll set up an observation for Friday evening, then, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘But what shall we do about Sir Royston?’
‘Get Wood to organize the observation, and he can have the pleasure of arresting Lady Naylor,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I want you with me because I’m going to collar Naylor the minute he sets foot outside his office on Friday evening. With any luck we’ll have him in the nick before the arrival of Her Ladyship. Be a nice surprise for him.’ He emitted a self-satisfied chuckle. ‘I do believe things are coming together, Marriott.’
By a lucky coincidence both arrests occurred at about the same time.
At half past five on the Friday evening, Hardcastle and Marriott were waiting in a cab in Vauxhall Bridge
Road opposite the offices of Naylor Clothing Ltd. Naylor’s Rolls Royce arrived at ten minutes to six precisely, and five minutes later Darby, the commissionaire, appeared in the doorway and signalled to Sam, Sir Royston’s chauffeur. The chauffeur got out and stood by the passenger door, ready to open it the moment Naylor appeared.
‘As usual, he’ll be out at six on the dot, Marriott,’ commented Hardcastle. ‘I do like a man of habit.’ Leaping from the cab and instructing the driver to wait, he swiftly crossed the road followed by Marriott.
Naylor looked up in surprise to be confronted by the DDI and Marriott. ‘What the hell d’you want this time, Inspector? I thought I told you—’
‘Royston Naylor, I’m arresting you on suspicion of being involved in the murders of Annie Kelly and Lady Sarah Millard,’ said Hardcastle, cutting across the manufacturer’s protest.
Naylor went red in the face, dropped his walking stick and waved his hands about. ‘What on earth are you talking about? Have you taken leave of your senses, man?’
Hardcastle took hold of Naylor’s arm as a token of his arrest and led him across the road to the waiting taxi.
Pausing briefly to suggest to Naylor’s chauffeur that he was unlikely to be needed this evening, and to hand him the discarded walking stick, Marriott joined Hardcastle and Naylor in the taxi.
‘Scotland Yard, cabbie.’ Hardcastle turned to Naylor. ‘Tell ’em Cannon Row, Sir Royston,’ he said jovially, ‘and half the time you finish up at Cannon Street in the City.’
‘This is a damned outrage,’ spluttered Naylor.
DS Wood and DC Catto loitered near 140 Washbourne Street which ran parallel with Vauxhall Bridge Road. At about the time that Naylor was arriving at Cannon Row police station, Lady Naylor alighted from a taxi, and made to enter the house.
‘Hilda, Lady Naylor,’ said Wood, raising his hat as he stepped into the woman’s path, ‘we’re police officers, and I’m arresting you on suspicion of being involved in the murders of Annie Kelly and Lady Sarah Millard.’