Hardcastle's Runaway

by Graham Ison

  ‘Not as far as I know. I believe Marie Musgrave is estranged from her husband and lives somewhere in the shires but I’m not sure about that. Lily – she’s the missing daughter – preferred to stay with her father, presumably because the location of his house affords easy access to the bright lights of London.’

  ‘Is Mr Musgrave at home, sir? It being a Monday, sometimes the gentry aren’t back from the country.’ Hardcastle was struggling to formulate the right sentences with which to address the Commissioner.

  Macready smiled. ‘Yes, he telephoned me from Vincent Square this morning.’

  ‘I’ll go and see him immediately, sir.’ Hardcastle paused. ‘I usually take my best sergeant with me on enquiries, sir. I wonder if—’

  Macready raised a hand. ‘My dear fellow, you must do exactly as you see fit. I know very little about the police force, although I’m learning fast, and I know even less about the detective department. Mr Wensley trusts you and so, therefore, do I. Go about this case exactly as you would any other.’

  ‘Would you want a daily report, sir?’ asked Wensley of the Commissioner.

  ‘Good heavens, no, Fred,’ said Macready. ‘I can’t abide negative reports, and in any case I’m sure you’ll keep an eye on things. Just let me know if there are any developments in the matter. And now, I’ll not delay you gentlemen any further. Good day to you both.’

  ‘Marriott!’ Hardcastle shouted for his sergeant as he passed the open door of the detectives’ office. ‘Come in here, now.’

  Quickly buttoning his waistcoat and donning his jacket, Marriott hurried across the passageway to the DDI’s office. ‘Sir?’

  ‘We’ve got a missing-person enquiry to deal with, Marriott.’ Hardcastle began filling his pipe with his favourite St Bruno tobacco.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Before you say anything else, Marriott, I’ve just seen the Commissioner and he’s assigned me to this case. And when the Commissioner tells you to do something, you do it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ There was little else that Marriott could say in the face of the DDI’s truism.

  ‘Sit down, m’boy.’ It was rare for Hardcastle to invite Marriott to sit down and equally rare for him to adopt a familiar approach. ‘I’ve been in the Job for twenty-eight years,’ he began reflectively, ‘and this morning was the first time I’ve ever met a Commissioner, even though I’ve now served under three of them.’ Lighting his pipe and blowing a plume of tobacco smoke towards the nicotine-stained ceiling of his office, the DDI told Marriott what he knew so far of the matter of the missing Lily Musgrave, which was precious little. ‘And now we’ll go to Mr Musgrave’s house in Vincent Square and see what’s what.’

  When Hardcastle and Marriott alighted from their cab, the DDI paused and looked thoughtfully around Vincent Square. ‘That’s the back of Rochester Row nick, across there, Marriott,’ he said, pointing to a building on the far side of the square, in the centre of which was Westminster School’s playing field. ‘I wonder if the idle coppers who live in the section house there saw anything.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think it would be anything useful, sir,’ ventured Marriott, not for the first time failing to follow his DDI’s line of reasoning. He doubted the girl had been abducted from her own home and dragged out kicking and screaming to a waiting motor car. But Hardcastle disliked any comment that bordered on the sarcastic, although he was not above making such comments himself.

  Hardcastle turned and mounted the twelve steps leading to the front door of Austen Musgrave’s house, a three-storey dwelling with a basement area. There was a railed balcony on the first floor where the bedrooms were located.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ The butler was a man of mature years and, as befitted his profession, immaculately attired in tailcoat and striped trousers.

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division.’

  ‘Quite so, sir. You are expected. If you’ll follow me, gentlemen, the master is in the morning room.’ The butler opened a door on the far side of the hall. ‘The gentlemen from the police, sir,’ he announced.

  Musgrave did not have the appearance Hardcastle was expecting of a rich industrialist. Clean-shaven and probably in his early fifties, his wavy, iron-grey hair was a little longer than was fashionable. Although he was dressed in a dark suit, he wore no waistcoat, and to add to the DDI’s amazement he had a soft-collared shirt and a rather flamboyant tie.

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle, sir, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’

  Austen Musgrave crossed the room and shook hands with each of the detectives. ‘Make yourselves comfortable, Mr Hardcastle and Mr Marriott.’ He indicated armchairs with a wave of his hand. ‘I’m about to have some coffee. I’m sure you’d like to join me.’

  ‘Very kind, sir,’ murmured Hardcastle.

  ‘I must say that I didn’t really expect any preferential treatment when I telephoned Nevil this morning about Lily, but he said he’d put his best detectives on the case.’

  ‘I hope we can live up to the Commissioner’s expectations, sir,’ said Hardcastle.

  Having instructed Crabb to arrange the coffee, Musgrave turned to the matter in hand. ‘Now then, what d’you want from me, Mr Hardcastle?’

  ‘When did you last see your daughter?’ The DDI signalled to Marriott to take notes.

  ‘Last Thursday,’ said Musgrave promptly. ‘That would’ve been the …’ He paused, calculating.

  ‘The twenty-seventh of February, sir,’ said Marriott, glancing up from his note-taking.

  ‘Yes, that would be it,’ said Musgrave. ‘She left the house at about half-past seven, I suppose.’

  ‘Did she say where she was going, sir?’ Hardcastle asked.

  ‘Not precisely, Inspector, no. She said she was going up to the West End to meet an old school friend. When I asked who this friend was, she refused to say and she also declined to say where exactly in the West End she was making for. But I suspect she was meeting a man.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked the DDI.

  ‘She’d taken special care with her cosmetics.’

  Hardcastle had doubts about Musgrave’s last statement. His own two daughters, Kitty and Maud, always took great care with their appearance regardless of who they were meeting. And that prompted Hardcastle to pose a question about the girl’s mother, but he was forestalled by Austen Musgrave.

  ‘The real problem, Inspector, is that Lily’s mother no longer lives with me. And that means the girl is lacking the occasional stern word of maternal caution about her conduct.’ Musgrave did not enlarge upon the reason behind his separation from his wife.

  ‘Do you have a photograph of Miss Musgrave, sir?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Yes, I do. Ah, the coffee. Put it down over there, Crabb, if you please, and perhaps you’d fetch the photograph of Miss Lily that’s in my study.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  The photograph that Crabb handed to Musgrave proved to be useless in terms of identifying the missing seventeen-year-old. It showed a demure young woman attired in a full-length dress with her hair worn long and a face devoid of make-up.

  ‘I’m afraid she looked nothing like that when she left here on Thursday, Mr Hardcastle.’ Musgrave sighed and passed the framed photograph to the DDI. ‘She’d had her beautiful hair cut quite short and was wearing an unbelievably short dress with a long string of beads that reached almost to her waist. And she had one of those ridiculous bandeaus around her forehead with a feather in it. As for her face, well, Inspector, I’ve not seen the like of it: eyes surrounded by kohl or something similar that made her look as though she’d received two black eyes in a fight.’

  Hardcastle nodded sagely. ‘I’m afraid that’s the way young women are starting to dress these days, sir.’ That said, he was fairly sure that his wife, Alice, would do her best to prevent their daughters Kitty and Maud leaving the house dressed in such a fashion. But he had to admit, if only to himself, that Kit
ty was a strong-willed twenty-three-year-old who had spent most of the war years as a conductorette with the London General Omnibus Company. As for Maud, she would be out of her parents’ control in less than three weeks’ time, when she married her army officer fiancé.

  ‘How did Miss Musgrave travel to the West End, sir?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘I offered her the car and my chauffeur to take her, Mr Marriott, but she declined. Further proof that she didn’t want me to know where she was going, I suppose. I sent Crabb out to find a taxicab.’

  ‘I’ll need to speak to Crabb, sir,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Of course.’ Musgrave stood and made towards the bell-pull.

  ‘I’d rather speak to him in his pantry, sir, if you don’t mind. It would save taking up your time.’ Hardcastle knew from experience that domestic servants were more forthcoming when their employer was not listening to what they had to say.

  ‘If you’re quite sure, Mr Hardcastle.’

  ‘Quite definitely, sir.’ The DDI stood up. ‘But before I do so, I’d be obliged if you’d get someone to show me Miss Musgrave’s room.’

  ‘Why on earth would you want to see her room, Inspector?’ Musgrave raised an eyebrow of curiosity rather than of censure.

  ‘You’d be surprised what it might tell us, sir,’ said Hardcastle mysteriously.

  ‘I must say that the dark art of detection is unfamiliar to me, Inspector, although I have read The Woman in White.’ Musgrave laughed. ‘I’ll show you up there myself.’

  TWO

  Lily Musgrave’s room was similar to that of many young women of her age, something of which Hardcastle, having two daughters of his own, was well aware, but glancing around he immediately sensed a difference between his girls and the Musgraves’ daughter. The decor and ornaments in Lily’s room indicated to Hardcastle that not only was she spoilt, but was still very much a child. By comparison, his own eldest daughter, Kitty, was worldly and strong-willed, and Maud, although only a few years older than the missing Lily, had been matured by the harrowing task of nursing wounded officers during the war, one of whom she was about to marry.

  A double bed adorned with a colourful bedspread stood in the centre of the wall opposite the window, its black and brass bedstead topped with large brass bed knobs. A rather worn and forlorn teddy bear was seated on one of the pillows. An oak wardrobe with an inset mirror stood against another wall alongside a chest of drawers, upon which were several baby dolls. To Hardcastle’s discerning eye the Turkey carpet must have cost at least fifty pounds.

  Musgrave picked up a copy of Horner’s Penny Stories from a bedside table and tossed it into a wastepaper basket. ‘I’ve told her time and time again not to read those trashy magazines, Inspector, but she won’t listen to anything I say these days.’ He sighed deeply.

  ‘Maybe so, sir,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but I’d rather you didn’t disturb anything until my sergeant’s had a look round.’

  ‘Oh, of course. I do apologize.’ Musgrave paused. ‘But a magazine of that sort is not what you’d call a clue, is it?’

  ‘I’ve no way of knowing until I’ve examined it,’ said Hardcastle, a little tersely. ‘But it might be evidence.’

  ‘Evidence?’ Musgrave sounded a little alarmed at the DDI’s use of the word.

  ‘Evidence of where Miss Musgrave might’ve gone, sir. She may have made notes in it. Young girls are inclined to do unpredictable things like that.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Musgrave reflected on what Hardcastle had said. ‘It would probably be better if I left you gentlemen to get on with your work, but perhaps you’d come and see me again before you leave. I shall be in the morning room.’

  Once Musgrave had departed, Hardcastle and Marriott began a meticulous examination of the room. It was not, of course, the scene of a crime, but rather somewhere that may yield an indication of where the missing Lily had gone.

  ‘This might be interesting, sir,’ said Marriott, holding up a leather-bound book secured by a small brass lock designed to keep the contents from prying eyes.

  Hardcastle took hold of the book and examined the lock. ‘You should be able to open that easily enough, Marriott. See what you can do.’

  It took Marriott no more than a few seconds to break the flimsy lock and he thumbed through the pages of the book.

  ‘What’s it about, Marriott? A diary, is it?’

  ‘Not as such, sir, although it looks like a day-to-day account of what she’s been doing. I can’t see anything useful in it.’

  ‘Bring it with you, though. I’ll examine it later.’

  ‘D’you think we ought to get Mr Musgrave’s permission, sir?’

  ‘No, I don’t, Marriott. I’ll just tell him I’ve seized it,’ said Hardcastle firmly. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing that will assist, sir. Plenty of frocks and fancy underwear and jewellery; all expensive stuff by the looks of it. There’s some make-up on the dressing table that’s got labels on it that I don’t recognize. It looks expensive, too.’

  ‘Would be,’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘I’m coming to the conclusion that Lily Musgrave is an empty-headed, spoiled young woman, Marriott,’ he said, giving voice to the thoughts he had entertained the moment he set foot in Lily’s bedroom. ‘I daresay her father will give her anything she asks for.’ He was already tiring of the ostentatious way in which the obvious wealth of the Musgrave family was displayed. Furthermore, he was a little piqued that Musgrave should have used his influence with the Commissioner that resulted in Hardcastle doing a job that should have been dealt with by a Uniform Branch inspector at best. ‘Might be a gift from some fancy man. From what Musgrave was saying, I rather think that his precious Lily has been seeing someone. Probably a bit of jig-a-jig an’ all. Whenever a young woman starts acting all secretive there’s usually a beau at the end of it. What’s more, it usually ends in tears. Something you’ll have to keep an eye on when your young lass is of an age.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I certainly will,’ said a somewhat mystified Marriott. He didn’t foresee any problems with his daughter, Doreen, but she was only eight years of age and his wife Lorna didn’t stand for any nonsense, even at that age.

  ‘You didn’t come across any letters, I suppose. Nothing like that?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘In that case we’ll go down and see if Crabb can shed any light on this young lady. In my experience, Marriott, butlers are the only people in a household what know everything that’s going on.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott received that little homily on every occasion that he and the DDI had occasion to talk to domestic staff.

  It was spartan and gloomy below stairs in Austen Musgrave’s house, brought more into contrast by the luxury of the upstairs rooms. It was, however, no different from the other great houses that Hardcastle and Marriott had visited.

  In common with most of those houses, there was a kitchen, a scullery and a servants’ hall with stone-flagged flooring throughout that lent a cold feeling to the entire area. One wall in the kitchen bore a collection of copper saucepans while against another was a huge range that doubtless was kept alight permanently.

  The moment the two detectives appeared in the doorway of the servants’ hall, a buxom, grey-haired woman put down her knitting on the long, scrubbed table where the staff took their meals and stood up. Her expression was one of surprise coupled with a measure of apprehension at the arrival of two strangers who were not members of the family and clearly not tradesmen.

  ‘Can I help you, sir? I’m Mrs Briggs, the cook. And do mind your step, sir: the skivvy’s only just washed the floor. We weren’t expecting nobody to come down from upstairs, you see, sir.’

  ‘We’re police officers, Mrs Briggs,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We’re looking for Crabb the butler.’

  ‘You’ll find Mr Crabb in his pantry, sir. Over there,’ said the cook, pointing to a door on the far side of the room. She wiped her hands on her apron – an automatic gesture when she was a little nervou
s and she was nervous now, her apprehension justified. She wondered why the police wanted to talk to the butler and was immediately alarmed that her petty pilfering from the household provisions had come to notice, particularly as they had become bolder since the departure of Mrs Musgrave. She was afraid that Crabb had called the police to report the matter. It was the sort of thing – in her view, anyway – that he would have done; the butler had never disguised his dislike of the cook with whom he had had several ‘fallings out’. What Mrs Briggs did not know, however, was that Crabb was perpetrating his own frauds, most of which were to do with the wine cellar.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Briggs.’ Hardcastle and Marriott avoided the damp patches on the floor and the DDI tapped on the butler’s pantry door.

  ‘Ah, Mr Hardcastle, sir.’ Crabb put down a copy of yesterday’s Daily Mirror, took off his spectacles and rose hurriedly to his feet. ‘How can I help you, sir?’ he asked, smarmily solicitous. ‘And please take a seat, gentlemen.’

  ‘I’m told by Mr Musgrave that you called a cab for Miss Musgrave last Thursday, Mr Crabb,’ said Hardcastle once he and Marriott were seated and Crabb had resumed his seat.

  ‘That’s not quite correct, sir. I sent Dobbs, the second footman. It ain’t no job for a butler going out looking for cabs, if you take my meaning, sir.’

  ‘Quite right and proper, Mr Crabb. What time was this?’

  ‘Dobbs came back with the cab at a quarter past seven, sir, and Miss Lily left the house at a minute or two after half past the hour.’

  ‘I assume you opened the door for her when she left. Did you hear where she asked to be taken?’

  ‘No, sir. She must have told the driver once she was inside but she always was a bit secretive, even as a child.’

  ‘Where did your man Dobbs find this cab?’

  ‘The cab shelter in Vauxhall Bridge Road, sir.’

  ‘Excellent,’ exclaimed Hardcastle.

  ‘D’you think you’ll be able to find him, sir? I mean, should you wish to do so.’ Crabb raised his bushy eyebrows. Personally he would not have any idea how to go about finding one of London’s four thousand or so cabmen.