by Graham Ison
‘We’ll have to see what the Director of Public Prosecutions has to say about it, Major. However, I’m duty bound to inform Lily’s father. You may recall that he’s an MP.’ Having delivered that barbed reminder, Hardcastle stood up. ‘We’ll return to the station, Marriott, and start writing reports.’ He paused for a moment. ‘After we’ve interviewed these other men. And you can start by giving my sergeant their addresses, Quilter.’
Max Quilter crossed to a safe, unlocked it and took out a sheet of paper. Slowly he dictated the addresses that Hardcastle had asked for.
ELEVEN
‘Did you dismiss Wood and his men from Rupert Street, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle once the two of them were back at Cannon Row.
‘Yes, sir.’ Perhaps one day, he’ll stop telling me how to do my job, Marriott thought.
Hardcastle took out his half-hunter and glared at it as though it were guilty of some heinous crime. ‘Now’s as good a time as any, Marriott. We’ve seen Lucas, and we’ve seen Colonel Rendell, but who’s the nearest after him?’
Marriott glanced at his pocketbook. ‘Major Nigel Toland, sir, at Wellington Barracks. I imagine that Toland is a serving officer in the Grenadier Guards which is the regiment currently deployed to public duties from there.’
‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘Well, that’s walking distance. It’s at the bottom end of Birdcage Walk.’
‘I’ll get my coat and hat, sir.’ Marriott forbore from answering the DDI’s observation about the location of the barracks for fear he may make an impertinent remark.
‘There’s no need to rush, Marriott. We’ll have a pie and a pint in the Red Lion before we go anywhere.’
After more than four years wearing khaki, the Brigade of Guards was once again resplendent in its pre-war red tunics.
‘Gentlemen?’ The sergeant surveyed the two arrivals in the guardroom. He knew instinctively that they were not officers; in fact, it was clear that they were not in the army at all.
‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, Sergeant. My sergeant and me would like a word with—’ He paused and flicked his fingers. ‘What’s his name, Marriott?’ He knew perfectly well who he was looking for but it was a foible of his that he liked to appear absent-minded. On the other hand, though, it had deluded more than one criminal into making a confession because he thought the DDI had forgotten what he had said previously.
‘Major Nigel Toland, sir.’
‘Ah, yes, that’s the chap.’ Hardcastle returned his gaze to the guard commander. ‘That’s who we want to see, Sergeant.’
‘He should be in his office, Inspector. I’ll get a runner to take you over there.’ Turning his head, he shouted for someone called Harris.
‘Sarn’t?’ A young guardsman came rushing out from the rear of the guardroom, skidded to a halt and snapped to attention.
‘All right, lad, all right,’ said the sergeant, holding up a hand. ‘Take it easy. The bloody guardroom ain’t on fire. Take these two police officers to Major Toland’s office. D’you think you can manage that without getting lost?’
‘Where’s his office, Sarn’t?’
‘God give me strength! He’s the second in command of the bloody battalion, you pitiful blockhead. Which fool accepted you for the finest regiment in the British Army, answer me that, eh? And put your bloody titfer on. Can’t go walking about naked.’ The sergeant shook his head. ‘I don’t know where we get ’em from, Inspector. Right, Harris,’ he continued as the soldier reappeared now with his cap on. ‘Are you quite ready, lad? I don’t want to put you to any trouble or upset any arrangements you might have. Right, double away!’
Harris set off at a fast pace across the barrack square towards the office block but slowed down when he realized that Hardcastle and Marriott were not keeping up with him. Finally, the trio reached Toland’s office.
Harris knocked, strained his ears for a reply and, having received a summons to enter, threw open the door and crashed to attention on the bare boards immediately inside the major’s office.
‘Sir, your leave to speak, if you please, sir,’ he cried as he saluted.
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Sir, there are two police officers here to see you, please, sir. Your leave to show them in, sir?’
Without waiting to hear a reply, and already tiring of this military ritual, Hardcastle pushed past Harris and introduced himself and Marriott.
Toland stood up behind his desk and waved a hand of dismissal at Harris. ‘Please take a seat, gentlemen,’ he said smoothly, affording the detectives a welcoming smile, ‘and tell me how I may help you. One of our chaps got himself into trouble, eh?’ Hardcastle guessed that the Guards major was in his mid-thirties. Immaculate in blue frock coat with a red sash around his waist, he was a full six foot tall with an aquiline nose and pomaded hair. During the interview, he frequently brushed his guardee moustache with the back of his hand.
‘No, Major Toland,’ Hardcastle began, ‘it’s about a young lady by the name of Lily. I’m given to understand that you have taken her out to dinner on several occasions.’
Suddenly the false bonhomie vanished. ‘Yes, dammit, I have, but I’m not married and I don’t see that my social arrangements are any concern of the damn police.’
‘In addition to that,’ Hardcastle continued, quite undeterred by the major’s brusqueness, ‘you often attend a party at a private house where the young lady in question disrobes fully for the entertainment of you and your friends.’
‘Where on earth did you get that slanderous cock-and-bull story from, Inspector?’ Toland brushed at his moustache. ‘Just give me the name of the scoundrel who told you and I’ll see the damned fellow in court. Or was it the wretched woman? Trying a bit of blackmail, is she, eh what?’
‘Are you denying it?’ asked Hardcastle mildly.
‘Certainly I’m denying it.’
‘Read out them names, Marriott.’ Hardcastle ignored the major’s protestations.
‘Captain Oscar Lucas, Major Max Quilter, Roland Kelsey, Colonel Tom Rendell and Lieutenant Carl Frampton of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve.’ Marriott read the names out slowly, carefully enunciating each one.
‘Do those names mean anything to you, Major Toland?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Now look here, Inspector—’
‘Before you say something you later regret, Major,’ said Hardcastle, rather formally, ‘you might like to know that the young lady in question is only seventeen years of age.’
‘She told me she was twenty-four. What is she? A professional tart?’ Toland sneered.
‘No,’ said Hardcastle. ‘As a matter of fact, she is the daughter of Mr Austen Musgrave.’
‘He’s a member of parliament who is tipped to become Secretary of State for War,’ put in Marriott. Apart from the vague suggestion made by Inspector Crozier of the Palace of Westminster police that Musgrave was in line for a Cabinet appointment, there was no suggestion as to which particular post. But as the Secretary of State for War was the political head of the army, Marriott thought that mentioning it would be a good way of bringing the pompous major down a peg or two.
Up to that point, Major Toland had remained standing, presumably to give him a psychological ascendancy over these two policemen. But now, he sat down suddenly, the arrogance vanishing, and his face a picture of contrition.
‘Oh my God!’ he exclaimed, tugging fiercely at his moustache. ‘I’d no idea. Is there any way in which this can be kept quiet, Inspector?’
‘All I can tell you, Major, is that I’m preparing a report for the Director of Public Prosecutions about the entire matter,’ said Hardcastle, with a degree of satisfaction. ‘It will be for him to decide,’ he added. But he knew the likelihood of a prosecution was remote. ‘Good day to you, Major Toland.’
‘Where to now, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle, once they were back in Birdcage Walk.
‘Is there any point in interviewing any more of these men, sir
? I mean, are we likely to learn any more than we already know?’
‘Shan’t know until we ask, Marriott.’
‘Roland Kelsey lives in Wilton Street, sir,’ said Marriott, suppressing a sigh.
‘Wilton Street,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Henry Gray used to live there, at number eight.’
‘Who was he, sir?’ Marriott feared he was about to get another short history lesson.
‘He wrote Gray’s Anatomy,’ Hardcastle replied airily. Seeing Marriott’s puzzled expression, he added: ‘It’s a medical textbook. However, what does this Kelsey do for a living? Any idea?’
‘No, sir, and Quilter didn’t know.’
‘In that case, we’re about to find out.’
Roland Kelsey’s house was a four-storey property in a Georgian terrace.
Hardcastle and Marriott alighted from their cab and, for a few moments, the DDI stood looking up at the house and nodding slowly.
‘Well, Marriott, we’ll see what Mr Kelsey has to say.’ It took only two paces to cross the narrow pavement and Hardcastle rapped loudly on the knocker.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ Attired in morning dress, the butler had the bearing of one who had been in service all his life.
‘We’re police officers,’ announced Hardcastle, ‘and we want to speak to Mr Roland Kelsey.’
‘I’m Roland Kelsey,’ said the butler. ‘What’s this about?’
‘It might be better if we spoke inside.’ Although somewhat taken aback by this revelation, Hardcastle showed no signs of his surprise.
‘Perhaps so,’ said Kelsey, and led the two officers into the entrance hall before turning sharply to the right, opening a door and descending a flight of stairs to the basement.
Once in the servants’ quarters, Kelsey took the two detectives into his pantry.
‘Please take a seat, gentlemen. Has a member of the household staff got into trouble with the police?’
‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, and information has come my way that you have been entertaining a young woman by the name of Lily to dinner at West End restaurants. Usually on a Saturday evening. It is understood that you first met this young woman at the VanDoo Club in Rupert Street.’
‘Me, sir?’ Kelsey burst out laughing. ‘Good God, Inspector, where d’you imagine I’d get the money to dine young women in expensive restaurants? Apart from anything else, I’m married. To the cook here.’
‘Read them names to Mr Kelsey, Marriott.’
Marriott took out his pocketbook and read out the names, although he was now so familiar with them that he could have recited them from memory.
Kelsey looked at the two detectives with a bemused expression on his face. ‘I’ve never heard of any of these gentlemen, Inspector. Anyway, butlers don’t mix with colonels and majors socially or any other way for that matter, and I’ve certainly never been to anywhere called the VanDoo Club.’
‘Was your master a soldier by any chance, Mr Kelsey?’ asked Marriott.
‘Only very briefly, sir. He volunteered at the very start as a medical officer but received a chest wound at the retreat from Mons and was invalided out. They said they couldn’t risk him facing a gas attack so he went back to being a doctor. He has what you might call a society practice in Harley Street.’
‘What’s his name?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Doctor Jack Rylance.’
‘Does he ever go out by himself on a Saturday evening, Mr Kelsey?’ Marriott asked.
‘Quite often, sir. You see, the doctor’s not married. He’s only a young man comparatively speaking – twenty-seven, he is – and between you, me and the gatepost, I think he likes to play the field. Still, I daresay he’ll settle down one day.’
‘Is he here now?’ Hardcastle enquired.
‘No, sir. As a matter of fact, you just missed him. Well, by an hour or so. He’s gone off for a weekend in the country. He has a cottage in Lancing in West Sussex. He owns a market garden there and he goes down from time to time to keep an eye on things. He’s just bought a Rolls-Royce – a beautiful car, it is – but he hasn’t taken on a chauffeur as yet. Mind you, I think he quite likes driving the thing himself.’
‘Thank you, Mr Kelsey,’ said Hardcastle, as he stood up. ‘There’s obviously been a misunderstanding. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’
‘Not at all, sir. I’ll show you out.’
Hardcastle was silent all the way back to the police station, his head bowed in thought. It wasn’t until he reached his office that he expressed a view about the abortive visit he and Marriott had made to Wilton Street.
‘I think that young Doctor Rylance has been using his butler’s name in case his own gets into the newspapers.’
‘Indeed, sir, I think you’re right,’ said Marriott, who had come to that conclusion almost as soon as he and the DDI had started talking to Kelsey.
‘A smart practice in Harley Street by day and watching a young girl take off her clothes by night. Rylance is a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde if you ask me, Marriott.’
‘What do we do now, sir?’
‘This is all getting interesting. I think we’ll go looking for Lieutenant Carl Frampton of the RNVR.’
‘Very good, sir.’ But there was no enthusiasm in Marriott’s voice. He thought that Hardcastle was wasting his time.
‘I wonder if he’s a member of the In and Out Club.’
‘Is there a reason why he should be, sir?’
‘Of course, Marriott. Its proper name is the Naval and Military Club.’
‘There’s also The Rag, sir.’
‘The what?’
‘The Army and Navy Club in St James’s, sir, but it’s known informally as The Rag.’
‘Oh, yes, of course, that one. I’d quite forgotten it’s called The Rag. Yes, you could be right, Marriott. We’ll give that a try.’
‘But I’ve also heard that some RNVR officers have started their own club. It’s called the RNVR Auxiliary Patrol Club.’
‘Remind me where that is.’
‘At the moment in Pall Mall, sir. Apparently they’ve leased rooms at the Marlborough Club until they can get premises of their own.’
Hardcastle said nothing immediately. He was always irritated when Marriott produced detailed information of that sort, but would at once be irritated if he had not found it out. As Hardcastle would frequently remind him, that was what a first-class sergeant was supposed to do.
‘Is Frampton a member of any of these clubs, then, Marriott? Have you found that out yet?’
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘Well, you’d better do so. I don’t want to waste my time traipsing round the clubs of Pall Mall making enquiries like a door-to-door salesman.’
Ten minutes later, Marriott tapped on the DDI’s office door. ‘Frampton is a resident member of The Rag, sir.’
‘How did you find that out so quickly, Marriott?’
‘I telephoned the secretary, sir.’
‘Really?’ said Hardcastle. ‘Not very efficient, I’d have thought. How did you know you were actually talking to the secretary if you didn’t see him, eh? It could have been the hall porter for all you know.’
‘He assured me he was the secretary, sir.’
Hardcastle chose not to prolong that discussion. ‘We’ll interview Frampton,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow.’
Lieutenant Carl Frampton was about twenty-five years old and, he told the detectives, a single man. The war got in the way of any lasting relationships, he said, apparently with some regret. As Marriott had predicted, but had not dared put into words, the interview with the former naval officer revealed nothing fresh about the parties at which Lily Musgrave ‘entertained’ the guests by taking her clothes off in exchange for a dinner bought for her by one of them.
Just before the two detectives left the Army and Navy Club, Marriott posed a question.
‘Lieutenant Frampton, you obviously know Mr Roland Kelsey.’
‘Yes, of course, but yo
u knew that already.’
‘Would you be so good as to describe him for my inspector.’
Frampton placed the tips of his fingers together and leaned back in his chair, a pensive expression on his face.
‘Somewhere in his mid-twenties, I should think. Probably about five foot eight or nine, with gingery hair. I suppose you’d call it auburn.’
‘Was he clean-shaven?’
‘No,’ said Frampton as he stroked his beard. ‘He had a well-trimmed moustache. He stooped a bit when he was walking, too.’
The two detectives left the club and eventually turned into Whitehall. ‘That was obviously Doctor Rylance that Frampton was describing,’ said Hardcastle without complimenting Marriott for having thought of a question that had not occurred to him. ‘I think we’ll have a word with Rylance next week.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott wished he had not asked Frampton.
On Monday morning, Hardcastle and Marriott caught up with Dr Rylance just as he was about to leave Wilton Street for Harley Street. He explained that his panel of patients did not appreciate early morning appointments. In fact, he said, most of them preferred the afternoon or even the early evening to consult him. As Frampton had suggested, he was about five-foot-eight-inches tall and by the look of him in fairly good shape. Apart from a longish scar on his jawline and a lack of lobes on his ears, there was nothing else particularly outstanding about him.
He invited them into his first-floor drawing room before cheerfully admitting that he used his butler’s name when he attended Lily Musgrave’s little soirées, as he described them, but was sorry if he had caused Kelsey any embarrassment. He would apologize to him and in future use an entirely fictitious name. His clientele, he said, would be unlikely to consult a doctor who indulged in what they would doubtless see as debauchery of the worst possible kind, hence the duplicity.
At two o’clock that afternoon, Hardcastle crossed to Detective Superintendent Frederick Wensley’s office at New Scotland Yard.