by Graham Ison
‘Find him?’ scoffed Hardcastle. ‘When I put out the word, Mr Crabb, that cabbie will be knocking on my office door before you can say Jack the Ripper.’
‘Ah, I suppose so.’ Crabb was duly impressed but did not understand why Hardcastle had mentioned the infamous East End murderer in the same breath. He was not, however, the most intelligent of men.
‘Now, Mr Crabb, I’m going to seek your advice, knowing as I do that butlers are the fount of all knowledge.’
‘Oh, very kind of you to say so, sir, I’m sure.’ Crabb paused to pull his watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘I daresay you gentlemen wouldn’t be averse to a glass of sherry.’ Again he raised his eyebrows. ‘Or perhaps something a little stronger. The master keeps a very good malt whisky.’
‘Now you’re talking my language,’ said Hardcastle warmly. He was not much impressed by the sycophantic Crabb. In common with many of his calling, the butler tried to be all things to all people and certainly failed in the DDI’s view. But Hardcastle wanted the sort of information that he knew Crabb would possess. Or, more to the point, would be prepared to impart.
Without moving from his chair, Crabb reached across to a cupboard near his right hand and took out three crystal whisky tumblers and a bottle of Laphroaig. Hardcastle just restrained himself from licking his lips. It was his favourite malt, but at nigh on seven shillings a bottle it was something he was only ever able to afford once a year, usually at Christmas.
‘Now, Mr Crabb,’ Hardcastle began once the whisky had been poured, ‘I’d like you to be frank with me.’
‘If there’s anything I can do to assist you gentlemen just say the word, sir.’
‘What sort of girl is this Lily Musgrave?’
Crabb glanced at the pantry door to make certain it was firmly closed and then leaned closer to the DDI. ‘In my opinion, Mr Hardcastle,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘she’s what you might call a flighty young baggage. Anything Miss Lily wants, Miss Lily gets. Not to put too fine a point on it, sir, she has the master twisted round her little finger.’
Hardcastle nodded as though having his opinion confirmed. ‘When did she start behaving like that?’
‘The moment the mistress upped sticks and left, sir. Mind you,’ continued Crabb, moderating his voice even more, ‘that one ain’t no better than she ought to be. You see, sir, she was on the stage when the master married her,’ he added, as though mention of that profession was sufficient to define a loose woman.
‘D’you know where Mrs Musgrave went when she left here, Mr Crabb?’ asked Marriott.
‘Last I heard she was kicking her legs in the air in some sort of theatrical production at the Brighton Hippodrome. Marie Faye she’s called on the stage.’ Crabb emitted a sniff of derision.
‘How old is she, then?’ Marriott knew that Austen Musgrave must be at least fifty years of age.
The butler gave the question some thought before answering. ‘I’d say about thirty-six, sir. I did hear tell she was only seventeen when Miss Lily came along, or even a bit younger, I wouldn’t be surprised.’ He sniffed as if to emphasize his scepticism. ‘A bit of a mistake by all accounts, so they say. And the cook’s not sure that the master was the girl’s father either. Cooks know about these things.’
‘Have you any idea why Mrs Musgrave left, Mr Crabb?’
‘Well, sir,’ began Crabb, his voice becoming even more conspiratorial, ‘her lady’s maid did let slip as how the mistress was seeing another man what she’d got to know from her theatre days, but I don’t know whether there was anything in it. Mind you, Mrs Musgrave’s a good-looking woman and I wouldn’t blame any man for taking a fancy to her. But I can tell you that Forbes – he’s the first footman – did hear the master and Mrs Musgrave having a right ding-dong about an hour before she swept out of the house. She sent for her things the very next day and we haven’t seen hair nor hide of her since.’
‘When was this?’
‘About six months ago,’ said Crabb promptly.
‘D’you know if Lily was seeing a man?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Wouldn’t surprise me, sir, not that I know for sure, of course. Mind you, like mother like daughter is what I always say, and the mistress wasn’t above waggling her bum at any man she liked the look of. There again, the master’s got a roving eye and all. There’s an American lady called Sarah Gillard who stays here from time to time, says she’s an actress. In fact, she’s here now. Them stagey types seem to appeal to the master. I did hear he met up with her when he was in America, up to some dodgy business, so they say.’
‘Thank you, Mr Crabb,’ said Hardcastle, finishing his whisky and standing up. It was clear to him that the conversation had reached the point where speculation had replaced fact, not that there had been much of that either. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
‘A pleasure, sir. Any time you’re passing do call in.’
‘I reckon Crabb will say anything to stay on the right side of the law,’ said Hardcastle as he and Marriott mounted the stairs. ‘Mind you, every butler I’ve met is like that and I’d lay odds he’s fiddling Musgrave’s wine account.’
‘He didn’t have much to say about Lily, sir.’
‘No, he didn’t, but I’m interested in the Musgraves. I’m wondering what Crabb meant when he mentioned dodgy business. And Lily’s mother might be able to shed a bit of light on her runaway daughter. I think we’ll have a ride down to Brighton when we’ve got a moment and have a word with Marie Faye, as Mrs Musgrave is known now,’ said Hardcastle as he pushed open the door of the morning room. Austen Musgrave, reclining in an armchair, was awaiting the detectives’ return.
‘Did you learn anything from Crabb that might be of assistance, Mr Hardcastle?’
‘Unfortunately, no, sir. Very tactful is your butler, disinclined to breach a confidence, if you take my meaning.’
‘Yes, he’s a very trustworthy fellow. I’m lucky to have found him.’
‘Indeed you were, sir.’ Hardcastle’s face was impassive. ‘There is just one thing, though. There was some make-up in Miss Musgrave’s room that I didn’t recognize. I wondered if it had been given to her by a man friend. Having daughters of my own, I can usually put a name to face powder and rouge and that sort of stuff that young girls put on their faces these days, but not the pots in Miss Musgrave’s room.’
Musgrave laughed openly. ‘I can see that I was very lucky that Nevil assigned you to search for Lily, Inspector. You obviously know what you’re about. Yes, I was in America not long before the end of the war. I’m thinking of going into business with a textile firm that supplies costumes for the moving pictures that are all the rage. The cinema is the coming thing and it will soon replace the theatre. In Hollywood they’re even experimenting with putting sound on the movies, but it will still be a while yet before pictures with speech on them become a reality.’
‘I find that hard to believe, sir,’ muttered Hardcastle.
Musgrave laughed. ‘If you’ve got any cash to spare, Inspector, you should buy shares in the moving pictures. You could be a rich man in a few years.’
‘You seem quite taken with America, sir,’ said Hardcastle, who had no spare cash, especially as his daughter’s wedding was looming.
‘There’s no doubt, Mr Hardcastle, that America is the future.’ There was an almost dream-like expression on Musgrave’s face. ‘It really is a go-ahead nation. It’s definitely the place to be. This suit I’m wearing is American and, as you can see, waistcoats are becoming a thing of the past over there, as are stiff collars. I’m angling to import some of this American clothing if I can manage to wangle my way around the import tariffs, but I’ve got a few friends who might be able to pull strings. You’d be amazed what can be achieved if you grease a few palms and cut a few corners.’
‘That’s all very interesting, sir, but the make-up?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I tend to get carried away whenever I start talking about the home of the movies. There’s a man called Max Fact
or in Hollywood who has cornered the market in cosmetics for film stars because the old theatrical slapstick is unsuitable for cinematography. They say it looks awful on film. He gave me some of the stuff to give to Marie and Lily. That’s what you saw in her room.’
‘Who is Marie, sir? Is she another daughter?’ Hardcastle pretended innocence well, knowing that the Commissioner had told him that Lily was an only daughter.
‘No, Inspector. She’s my wife but she’s run away with another man.’
‘I see, sir,’ said Hardcastle, surprised that Musgrave was so open about his wayward wife, but assumed that it was something to do with his experience of the people involved in what he called ‘the movies’. ‘We’ll be on our way now, sir. I’ll keep you informed of any developments.’
‘I’m very grateful for the trouble you’re taking, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Musgrave, shaking hands with each of the detectives.
‘Not at all, sir.’ Hardcastle forbore from saying that he had no option.
When the two detectives were once more outside in Vincent Square, Hardcastle let fly. ‘I don’t really know what to make of that lot, Marriott,’ he said, looking around for a cab. ‘I wouldn’t trust Crabb the butler as far as I could throw a grand piano. And as for Austen Musgrave, he strikes me as an unreliable sort of man.’ He paused as a cab drew into the kerb. ‘I don’t think the Commissioner knows what sort of individual Musgrave is, but I wouldn’t want to claim him as a friend. In fact, I’ll have a word with Mr Wensley about him. I think he should tell Sir Nevil Macready what we’ve found out.’
Back in his office at Cannon Row police station, Hardcastle immediately sent for Henry Catto. Within seconds the good-looking, slender figure of the detective constable tapped apprehensively on the DDI’s door. A confident officer under all other circumstances and who cut a dash with the ladies, he became nervous and indecisive in Hardcastle’s presence.
‘You, er, wanted me, sir.’
‘Yes, Catto, that’s why I sent for you. And for God’s sake come in, man, instead of hovering in the doorway.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Catto edged into the room.
‘Last Thursday evening at a quarter past seven, a footman called Dobbs went to the cab shelter in Vauxhall Bridge Road and brought a cab from there back to Vincent Square.’
‘Sir?’ Catto was already mystified by this piece of information and was about to ask why the DDI had told him when Hardcastle appeared to have solved the problem.
‘I want that driver here in my office by three o’clock this afternoon, Catto. If he argues the toss remind him that the Commissioner licences cab drivers and can just as easily take those licences away. Go!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Catto fled, thankful that Detective Sergeant Marriott had taught him how to go about such a task.
Catto pushed open the door of the green wooden structure in Vauxhall Bridge Road to be greeted by a wall of tobacco smoke and an overwhelming smell of frying bacon.
The cabmen inside the shelter knew immediately that the smartly-dressed man with the curly-brimmed bowler hat was not a cab driver. In fact, they knew instinctively what he was.
‘Can we help you, guv’nor?’ asked one driver.
‘My divisional detective inspector …’ began Catto.
‘That’d be Mr ’Ardcastle, wouldn’t it, guv’nor?’ asked one driver, his woollen muffler still wrapped around his neck despite the oppressive heat that prevailed inside the shelter.
‘I can see you’re sharper than you look,’ said Catto, ‘in which case you’ll know what he wants.’
‘We’re always willing to help the law,’ put in one sycophant.
‘In that case, you’re just the man to assist me right now,’ said Catto, taking immediate advantage of the offer. ‘A driver from this shelter was hired by a footman from Vincent Square last Thursday evening at just before a quarter after seven. Tell that cabbie to be in Mr Hardcastle’s office at three o’clock prompt this afternoon.’
‘But he might have a fare,’ wailed the sycophant, regretting his offer of assistance.
‘Well, he’ll have to explain that to Mr Hardcastle an’ you might have to an’ all,’ said Catto, ‘but I wouldn’t like to be in his boots – or yours – if he’s late.’ And with that parting shot, he left, slamming the door behind him.
THREE
Once Catto had been despatched to interrogate the cab drivers at their shelter in Vauxhall Bridge Road, Hardcastle and Marriott made their way to the downstairs bar of the Red Lion in Derby Gate. Situated immediately outside New Scotland Yard, this particular pub was a favourite with the detectives both at the Yard and at Cannon Row police station, and Albert, the landlord, knew them all by name.
‘Good morning to you, Mr Hardcastle, Mr Marriott.’ Regardless of the time, Albert always greeted his customers with a ‘good morning’ until he had had his dinner, as he called it, after the pub closed at half past two. He gave the spotless top of his bar a cursory wipe with a cloth and then, unbidden, poured a pint of bitter for each of them.
‘Good afternoon, Albert.’ Hardcastle took the head off his beer but made no attempt to pay. Even if he had done so, his money would have been refused; Albert was at pains to keep on the right side of the head of the CID for the police station he referred to as his local nick. Not that Albert had any fears on that score; he was a law-abiding licensee and ran an orderly public house. As he often said to his wife, he would be a fool to do otherwise with that many policemen right on the doorstep.
‘Busy, Mr Hardcastle, or has it eased off a bit since the Armistice?’ Albert scratched his rather long nose and inclined his head to one side.
Hardcastle scoffed and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘Eased off? It’s got worse, Albert. We’ve now got a whole load of ex-soldiers milling about the place. And don’t forget they’ve spent the last four years killing and plundering. If you think about it, they’re difficult habits to shake off.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Albert and, not wishing to get involved in a lengthy discussion, moved along the bar to serve another customer.
‘What d’you make of this business with Lily Musgrave, Marriott?’ Hardcastle drained his glass and pushed it across the bar. ‘Two more pints when you’ve a moment, Albert,’ he said as he caught the landlord’s eye, ‘and a couple of fourpenny cannons.’
‘Coming right up, Mr H.’ Albert opened the hatch between the bar and the kitchen and repeated the order for two steak-and-kidney pies to his wife who, as Hardcastle frequently said, made the best fourpenny cannons in London.
‘I think Austen Musgrave is the sort of man who makes friends with anyone he thinks might do him some good, sir.’ Marriott was surprised that Hardcastle had sought his opinion; it did not often happen. ‘I’m not sure the Commissioner knows what sort of friend he’s got there. Personally I wouldn’t trust him an inch.’
‘Yes, well, I said as much earlier, and that’s why I’m seeing Mr Wensley this afternoon, Marriott. Of course, when Sir Nevil described Musgrave as a friend, he might well have meant that he was an acquaintance. There’s a great deal of difference, you know,’ Hardcastle added philosophically. ‘I suppose when you’re the Commissioner all sorts of people toady up to you, just to be on the safe side.’
Inspector Eric Crozier was the officer in charge of the Palace of Westminster police and it was said that he knew everything that went on in both Houses of Parliament. But those who knew him had quickly discovered that this apparent omniscience was one of Crozier’s boasts rather that a view shared by others. Shortly after being appointed to his present post, he had deemed it necessary to take elocution lessons in order to impress the peers and members of the Commons with whom he dealt on an almost daily basis. It is fair to say, however, that members of the Lords and the Commons were far too busy to notice any change. In fact, they hardly noticed Crozier at all, but the inspector’s subordinates thought this newly acquired affectation to be rather amusing. As a consequence, this self-important, red-faced and
overweight man had become something of a figure of fun as he strode pompously around the Palace of Westminster. Hardcastle dismissed him as being full of piss and importance, from which it may be deduced that he was a little piqued that Hardcastle should have sent for him, but Hardcastle, as a DDI, was a class-two inspector whereas Crozier was a class three.
‘You sent for me, sir.’ Crozier positively oozed resentment as he entered Hardcastle’s office and saluted punctiliously before removing his cap.
‘It was good of you to come so quickly, Mr Crozier,’ said Hardcastle with a heavy sarcasm that went unnoticed by Crozier. ‘Do take a seat.’
‘I do have pressing duties to perform, sir.’ Crozier glanced at the clock in the DDI’s office and spoke as though his own responsibilities were so onerous as to outweigh those of mere detectives.
‘But not as important as the matter I have to discuss with you now, Mr Crozier.’ Hardcastle was rapidly tiring of this inspector’s pretentiousness. ‘I saw the Commissioner this morning and Sir Nevil gave me a special task to undertake. I wouldn’t want to tell him that I didn’t get any help from you.’
‘Oh, indeed not, sir,’ said Crozier, becoming positively sycophantic at the mention of Sir Nevil Macready and impressed that Hardcastle had actually spoken to him. ‘We at the Palace of Westminster are only too willing to assist, as you know, sir.’
‘What d’you know of Austen Musgrave, Mr Crozier?’ Hardcastle took his half-smoked pipe from the ashtray and, having lit it, leaned back to await the inspector’s reply.
‘A very pleasant and cultured gentleman, sir.’
‘Don’t give me all that parliamentary claptrap, Mr Crozier,’ exploded Hardcastle testily. ‘What’s the real story? From what I’ve heard, he’s bent.’ The DDI had only slender evidence to support that allegation but Crozier did not know that.
The Palace of Westminster inspector blinked and emitted a nervous cough. ‘Er, well, I ’ave ’eard rumours about ’is dealings during the war, sir, but I can’t specify as ’ow what they might be, so to speak.’ Unnerved by Hardcastle’s straight talking and hectoring tone, Crozier’s elocution lessons were forgotten and he regressed to the idiom of the Hoxton where he had been born and raised. Nevertheless, he tried to maintain the sort of gentility of accent usually found in seaside boarding-house landladies.