by Graham Ison
‘I thought I’d tell you what’s happened so far before I begin to prepare my written report, sir.’ He told Wensley about the parties and what went on there, and handed him a list of the names of the participants. ‘Much as I hate to say this, sir, I cannot see that any offence has been committed, either by Miss Musgrave or by the men who wined and dined her in exchange for her giving a performance for them.’
‘Nor can I, Ernie,’ said Wensley, ‘but I’ll forward your report to the Assistant Commissioner L Department. He might want to send it to Wontner’s, our legal advisers, but I doubt that anything will come of it.’
‘D’you think I should inform Mr Austen Musgrave of my findings, sir?’
‘No,’ said Wensley sharply. ‘We’re not allowed to tell him anything because Lily Musgrave, although she’s not yet reached her majority, is not a child or a young person. I’ll inform the Commissioner, and if he wants to tell Mr Musgrave then that’s a different matter. But in view of what you told me about Musgrave’s dubious business dealings, I doubt if Sir Nevil will want to talk to him again.’
When Hardcastle returned to Cannon Row, he sent for Marriott and told him the outcome of his interview with Mr Wensley.
‘That looks like it, then, sir.’
‘Yes, it does.’ But Hardcastle was disappointed that no one would be prosecuted for what, at best, he saw as disreputable behaviour.
Although not in quite the same category, Marriott recalled the Force instruction that forbade police from interfering with ‘the innocent amusements of the working classes’. Of course, the group of officers and ex-officers they had been dealing with could hardly be categorized as working class.
‘By the way, sir,’ said Marriott, ‘there was a piece in The Times this morning that might be of interest to you.’
‘About Musgrave?’
‘No, sir. It announced that ex-Detective Superintendent Patrick Quinn, late of Special Branch, has received a knighthood.’ Marriott closed the door before the outburst he knew this piece of information would cause the DDI.
TWELVE
During the days following the closure of the Lily Musgrave affair, concerning which the Force’s legal advisers had recommended no action be taken, nothing of great importance happened to occupy the professional mind of Divisional Detective Inspector Ernest Hardcastle. There had been a break-in at the premises of a jeweller’s establishment in Artillery Row where known thieves had obligingly left their fingerprints, but apart from a few cases of pickpocketing – known to the police as larceny person – little had occurred to whet the DDI’s appetite. Consequently, Hardcastle had reached that point where he was becoming bored. Events at home, however, were far from tranquil. And on Tuesday the eighteenth of March, Hardcastle finally yielded.
‘I’m still struggling to find a suitable place for my daughter’s wedding reception, Marriott,’ Hardcastle admitted in a rare acknowledgement of his own fallibility. ‘Mrs Hardcastle is getting a bit impatient.’
That was putting it mildly. In fact, Alice Hardcastle had become quietly very annoyed, her voice dropping to the measured low tone that Hardcastle recognized only too well as a warning of criticisms yet to come. She had crushingly observed that at work, Hardcastle had only to flick his fingers to get things done, but on those occasions when he had to do it himself, they somehow didn’t seem to get done. It’s a simple enough matter, she had added. And in case you had forgotten, she continued, it’s your daughter’s wedding we’re talking about, to an army officer, and it’s on Saturday, not next year.
‘Would you like me to make a few enquiries, sir?’ Marriott was loath to become involved in the domestic matters of the Hardcastle family but he knew instinctively that if the DDI was in a bad mood about Maud Hardcastle’s wedding, he was likely to be in a bad mood with the detectives at Cannon Row police station, if not all of A Division.
‘You could do, Marriott, but I doubt you’ll have much more luck than me,’ said Hardcastle.
Marriott smiled. ‘I’ll see what I can do, sir. Where is the service to be held?’
‘Saint Anselm’s at Kennington Cross.’
‘You’ll want the reception to take place as near to there as possible, then, sir, and it’ll need to be somewhere that provides good service.’
‘Exactly, Marriott.’
‘How many guests are you inviting, sir?’
Hardcastle had to give that question some thought; in fact, he had not even considered it. ‘About twenty, I suppose,’ he said after a minute or so.
‘I’ll make some enquiries, sir.’
‘Good of you, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle grudgingly, ‘but not in duty time.’
‘Of course not, sir,’ responded Marriott, deciding immediately that he would ignore that admonition. After all, if the DDI wanted him to find a suitable venue for Maud’s wedding reception at such short notice, Marriott was not going to do it in his own time.
It was, perhaps, proof of Marriott’s detective ability that he had an answer for the DDI within the hour.
‘I think I might have found a suitable place, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘I spoke to my opposite number at Kennington Road nick and he suggested the Royal Oak which is about a hundred yards down Kennington Road. It’s just past your house, as a matter of fact. They have a private room on the first floor that will accommodate as many as thirty or forty guests and they do silver service. It’s highly recommended.’
‘I’m obliged, Marriott.’ Hardcastle did not know what was meant by ‘silver service’, and did not intend to enquire, certainly not of a sergeant. But Alice would know.
‘Well, Ernest?’ Alice Hardcastle was seated in an armchair in the sitting room, putting the finishing touches to the hem of Maud’s wedding dress.
‘All arranged, love.’
‘How did you manage that so quickly? And while you’re thinking up an answer, you can pour me a glass of sherry.’
Hardcastle poured the drinks and sat down opposite his wife. He then told her about the Royal Oak, its private room and the fact that it provided silver service.
‘I should hope so,’ said Alice. ‘Nothing less will do. Have you inspected the place yet?’
‘No. As a matter of fact it was Marriott who made all the enquiries for me.’
Alice Hardcastle placed her glass of sherry carefully and deliberately on a side table and stared at her husband. ‘Did I hear that correctly, Ernest? You sent your sergeant to make the arrangements?’
‘I was very busy, Alice, love,’ said Hardcastle, hoping to deflect the criticism that was implied by the tone of censure in Alice’s voice.
Suddenly, Alice threw back her head and laughed. ‘Well, if Sergeant Marriott picked the place it’ll be all right. Frankly, Ernie, I think you’d be lost without him.’ She paused. ‘You have invited him to the wedding, I hope?’
‘Well, er, no,’ said Hardcastle hesitantly. ‘He is only a sergeant.’
‘So were you once,’ Alice reminded her husband pointedly. ‘Of course you must invite him. And his wife. What’s her name, by the way?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘You’ve no idea?’ Alice sounded scandalized. ‘He’s your right-hand man and you don’t even know his wife’s name? I’ve really no idea how you get your men to work for you. You won’t find it that easy once you get women police officers in the Force. They won’t be pushed around.’
‘Women police officers!’ scoffed Hardcastle and laughed. ‘That’ll be the day.’
‘Come along, Ernie,’ said Alice, draining her glass and standing up. ‘We’ll walk down to the Royal Oak and interview the cook.’
‘But I haven’t started my whisky yet,’ complained Hardcastle.
‘That’s all right,’ replied Alice, ‘you can buy one when we get there. That’ll be something, won’t it? Ernie Hardcastle buying a drink.’
Although it was a Tuesday, the Royal Oak was surprisingly full. Nevertheless, the moment Hardcastle and Alice entered the private bar they were spotted by the landlord.
>
‘I don’t often see you in here, Mr Hardcastle, and with your good lady, too, I see. Allow me to buy you both a drink.’
‘Very kind, I’m sure,’ murmured Alice and asked for a sherry. Hardcastle opted for a whisky.
‘It’s always a pleasure to see local residents patronizing the old Royal Oak,’ said the landlord.
Particularly if they happen to be a senior detective who might do you a bit of good, thought Hardcastle. ‘We’d like to talk to you about our daughter’s wedding,’ he began.
‘Ah, yes,’ said the landlord, whose name, he reminded Hardcastle, was Henry Wade, ‘on Saturday, I believe.’
‘How did you know that?’ asked Hardcastle suspiciously.
‘I had a telephone call from your Mr Marriott, asking a few questions which, I’m pleased to say, I was able to answer to his satisfaction, I trust.’
‘As it stands at present, we shall be looking at twenty-two covers, Mr Wade.’ Alice Hardcastle, tiring of the niceties that were being exchanged between her husband and Wade, decided to intervene.
The use of the technical term ‘covers’ immediately warned the landlord that Mrs Hardcastle was not a woman to be trifled with.
‘Of course, madam.’
‘And I shall not be looking to pay more than five shillings per head, either.’
‘Oh, I’m quite sure the Royal Oak can accommodate you handsomely at that price, madam. Perhaps if I were to introduce you to my cook, you could discuss the finer points of the menu with him, so to speak. If you care to follow me, I’ll show you the way.’ As Wade moved towards the door, he issued an order to the barman: ‘Have another whisky and another sherry brought up for sir and madam. On my account.’
The trio mounted the stairs to the first floor and Wade opened a door that led straight into what he described as the banqueting suite.
‘As you can see, this room will easily accommodate the numbers you quoted, madam.’ Wade obviously saw little point in including Hardcastle in this conversation. Mrs Hardcastle knew exactly what she wanted. ‘If you wait for one moment, I’ll fetch the cook.’
‘This seems quite suitable, Ernie,’ said Alice, looking around with a critical eye. ‘With linen napery it should impress Charles’s parents and his friends.’
‘This is Maurice Shooter, the cook, madam.’ Wade returned with a small man who, although possessed of an English name, had a thin moustache that gave him the appearance of being Italian and who was clutching a foolscap-sized book. ‘Perhaps you’d care to listen to his suggestions.’
‘I’m not interested in his suggestions, Mr Wade. I’ll tell Mr Shooter what is required. All I need from you is an assurance that this room will be spotlessly clean on Saturday and that the linen napery is freshly laundered. There will be linen napery, won’t there, Mr Wade?’
Wade recognized that not as a question but as an order. ‘Of course, madam.’
‘A chair, please,’ commanded Alice, looking around.
‘Oh, I do apologize, madam.’ Wade scuttled across the room and fetched two chairs.
Alice produced a sheet of paper from her handbag. ‘This is what I require, Mr Shooter. Oh, thank you,’ she said as a waiter appeared with the Hardcastles’ drinks on a tray. ‘Now, where was I?’ she continued, examining her list again. ‘To start, I would want scallop Saint Jacques or smoked salmon with dill, pickled cucumber and crème fraiche.’ She waited until Shooter had finished writing and then cast a querying glance at him.
‘Yes, madam. Easily arranged,’ said Shooter nervously. ‘What about the main courses?’
‘I thought lobster tail poached in a suitable dressing.’
Shooter nodded. ‘I would suggest a purée of seafood lobster emulsion, madam.’
‘I’ll leave that to you, then, Mr Shooter.’ Alice made it sound like a magnanimous gesture on her part. ‘Now for the meat course.’ She consulted her notes again. ‘Roast baby Welsh lamb with crispy rosemary oats, baby potatoes roasted in duck fat and creamed spinach. Can you manage that or is it a little too ambitious?’
‘I most certainly can,’ confirmed Shooter, scribbling furiously and looking slightly affronted that Mrs Hardcastle thought that such a main course was beyond his capabilities. ‘And to follow, madam?’
‘Ices or sorbets I think would be just right. And cheese, of course.’
‘Of course, madam. And tea or coffee as required?’ Shooter raised an eyebrow.
‘Thank you.’
‘Now, what about wines, Mr Hardcastle?’ asked Henry Wade hopefully.
‘We’d better have a selection,’ said Alice, deciding that arrangements of this nature were beyond her husband. ‘But I daresay some of the men would prefer beer. Perhaps you’d arrange to have that available.’
‘Most certainly,’ said the unctuous Wade, his hands slowly revolving around each other. ‘And may I suggest champagne? We are fortunate to have obtained a couple of cases of Moët. It’s been very difficult to get hold of because of the war.’
‘The champagne has been taken care of, Mr Wade,’ said Alice, causing Hardcastle to raise his eyebrows. It was the first he had heard of any champagne. ‘And there will be a croquembouche provided. Perhaps the necessary dishes and cutlery will be available.’ She lapsed into thought for a second or two. ‘You do know what a croquembouche is, I suppose?’
‘Of course, madam.’
‘And I trust there’ll be no question of corkage for the champagne. There will be a number of army officers here, you see. In fact, our Maud is marrying one and I think they deserve a little leniency after all they’ve been through, don’t you?’ Alice smiled disarmingly.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, madam.’ Wade knew that the bride’s family would be footing the bill, not the army officers in question, but decided it would be impolitic to argue with a woman as formidable as Mrs Hardcastle.
‘Most satisfactory,’ proclaimed Alice Hardcastle, rising to her feet.
‘Er, the time on Saturday, madam?’
‘We’ll be sitting down at a quarter past two, Mr Wade.’ It was a statement that brooked no argument.
‘What’s all this about champagne, Alice, love?’ asked Hardcastle once they were back home.
‘Charles’s fellow officers managed to bring some home from France at the end of the war and they put it by for the wedding, as a present to the bride and groom, and apparently one of their clever army cooks has produced the croquembouche.’
Hardcastle had not the faintest idea what a croquembouche was but decided not to display his ignorance. ‘How d’you know all this, Alice?’
‘Strangely enough, Ernie, Charles talks to Maud, and Maud talks to me because you’re never here. And even when you are here, you never listen.’ That rebuke delivered, Alice went on. ‘Now, you have arranged the cars, I hope?’
Hardcastle looked triumphant. ‘I’ve arranged for a Rolls-Royce to take Maud to the church, and it will take the couple from the church to the reception.’
Alice frowned. ‘And just how did you manage to get hold of a Rolls-Royce, Ernest Hardcastle?’
‘It’s a 1912 Silver Ghost shooting brake,’ said Hardcastle, avoiding the question of how he had managed to hire such a car for the day. ‘And you needn’t worry about the cars for the groom and the other guests. It’s all taken care of.’
‘I sincerely hope so, Ernest.’ Alice had been married to Hardcastle for quite long enough to be able to gauge his efficiency, or lack of it. She also knew that his bluff confidence often turned out to be a pious hope rather than an endorsement of the true situation. But it was too late now.
The day of the wedding dawned gloomily. The temperature struggled to reach a few degrees above freezing point and there were spasmodic falls of wet snow. However, bad weather was not going to dampen the spirits of the young couple.
Hardcastle was sitting in an armchair when Maud came downstairs. He was not a man easily taken aback, but the sight of his twenty-year-old daughter in her bridal gown left him speechless.
<
br /> Maud’s ankle-length white satin dress was topped by a tunic with tasselled points to her waist. The veil was held by an orange blossom wreath, and white stockings and shoes completed the picture of a fashionable young bride.
‘You look beautiful, lass. You really do us proud.’
‘You can thank Mother, Pa,’ said Maud. ‘She made the whole outfit.’
Hardcastle turned to his wife. ‘Well done, Alice, love. I do believe our little girl’s grown up.’
‘I’ll get my hat,’ said Alice, turning away quickly. ‘Are you girls ready to go?’ she asked sharply as Kitty Hardcastle came down the stairs with Charles Spencer’s sister, Lavinia, the other bridesmaid.
Kitty handed Maud her bouquet. ‘Good luck, sis,’ she said and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Off you go.’
The passenger door of the Rolls-Royce was held open by a liveried chauffeur. Waiting in Kennington Road were most of the Hardcastles’ immediate neighbours, delighted to have a diversion from their drab lives after four weary and worrying years of war.
A sad reminder of that war was the ruined house opposite. Just over eighteen months previously it had fallen victim to a German bomb that had killed Arthur Hogg and the family’s two children, and left the widowed Bertha bereft of her reason and confined to a lunatic asylum.
The onlookers cheered and waved, shouting, ‘Good luck, Maud!’ as the youngest Hardcastle daughter stepped into the car, accompanied by her proud father. A policeman from Kennington Road police station had magically appeared in the busy road and stopped the traffic to allow the smooth departure of the bridal limousine.
At the door to St Anselm’s Church, Walter Hardcastle stood with his fellow usher, Private Cyril Townsend of the Loyal Regiment, who on every other day of the year was the groom’s army batman.
Captain Charles Spencer, in khaki service dress and sword, waited nervously at the altar, constantly fingering the cross-strap of his Sam Browne. Next to him was Geoffrey Wainwright, his best man.
The organist began Richard Wagner’s The Bridal Chorus, and there was a shuffling of feet as the congregation stood for the arrival of the bride.