by Graham Ison
Hardcastle paused on the threshold. ‘Was there a young lady staying here the weekend before last?’
The butler continued to walk away as he answered the DDI’s question. ‘Like as not, sir. There seems to be young lasses here most weekends, and young gentlemen, too. When His Lordship’s not here, of course.’ And with that unsatisfactory reply, he disappeared through a door on the far side of the large hall.
Some ten minutes passed before the door to the morning room opened again.
‘I thought I might be getting a visit from you, Inspector,’ said Lucas. ‘Do sit down, please.’
‘I spoke to Austen Musgrave this morning about the disappearance of his daughter, Captain Lucas.’ Hardcastle was determined to take advantage of this unexpected meeting with Lucas.
‘Yes, I had a telephone call from him last week. He was querying whether his daughter had spent the weekend here.’
‘And did she?’ As was his practice, Hardcastle was checking everything he had been told so far, including the information he had received from Detective Superintendent Wensley.
‘Yes, she was here. And that’s what I told Mr Musgrave.’
‘Your butler suggested that there were young women and young gentlemen here most weekends.’
Lucas laughed. ‘Anything Sidebottom says has to be taken with a pinch of salt, Inspector. I’m afraid his mind’s going and the guv’nor only keeps him on out of charity. He was a very good trainer years ago.’
‘Why should I believe anything you tell me, Captain Lucas?’ Hardcastle fixed Lucas with a penetrating stare. ‘After all, you’ve lied to me before.’
‘I think I’ve always been quite straight with you, Inspector,’ protested Lucas, but he sounded far from convincing.
‘The last time I interviewed you, I asked you where Colonel Rendell lived.’ Hardcastle glanced at his sergeant. ‘Just read the note you made at the time, Marriott.’
‘You said you thought Rendell lived in Old Queen Street, Captain Lucas, but claimed not to be sure,’ said Marriott.
‘Did I say that?’ asked Lucas innocently.
Hardcastle did not bother to respond to that question. Instead, he countered it with a statement. ‘You knew perfectly well where Colonel Rendell lived because you’d been to parties there – parties also attended by Lily Musgrave when she entertained you by taking off all her clothes.’
‘That’s not true.’ Lucas attempted to convey outrage at the suggestion but it lacked conviction.
‘I can produce half-a-dozen witnesses who are willing to testify that you were. But,’ continued Hardcastle, ‘I’m not here to talk about that. I’m here to talk about Miss Musgrave’s disappearance and where she is now.’
‘I have no idea,’ said Lucas, but he was now giving signs of being rattled by the DDI’s probing.
‘Musgrave was under the impression that she was here as your guest the weekend before last?’
‘She was here, Inspector, but as a guest at the party that was held here.’ At last, Lucas had decided to tell the truth. ‘Not as my personal guest.’
‘And did you tell Austen Musgrave that? He believed that she was here as your personal guest.’
‘I don’t know what gave him that idea, because when I invited Lily, I told her that she would know most of the people here.’
‘The last time we spoke to you, Captain Lucas, you admitted having sexual intercourse with this seventeen-year-old girl,’ said Marriott. ‘Where did this take place?’
The sudden change of direction, and Marriott’s soft-voiced delivery, further unnerved Lucas. ‘The first time it was in my bedroom on the first floor,’ he replied nervously.
‘So sexual intercourse occurred more than once, did it?’ asked Marriott.
‘Yes. Several times, in fact. There were a few times in the hayloft at the back of the stables.’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Hardcastle.
‘And on each of these occasions, your father was in Ireland, was he?’ continued Marriott.
‘Yes. As I said before, he’d play merry hell if he found out.’
‘That’s a pity,’ commented Hardcastle drily. ‘We may have to talk to him at some stage.’ But it was an empty threat designed to discomfit Lucas even further.
‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed Lucas, clearly concerned at the prospect. ‘Do you have to?’
‘How many times has Miss Musgrave been down here altogether, Captain Lucas?’ asked Marriott.
‘Three in all,’ said Lucas unhesitatingly.
‘So this story you told us originally about using your father’s flat in Albany to bed this young woman was untrue, was it?’
‘Yes.’ Lucas had the good grace to look shamefaced about the admission. ‘To be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t dare, Sergeant. If the guv’nor found out I’d been using his flat to bed some girl he’d blow his top.’
‘I imagine so.’ Marriott glanced across at Hardcastle.
‘I don’t think we need to bother you any further, Captain Lucas,’ said the DDI as he and Marriott stood up.
Lucas stood up, too, and shook hands. ‘Goodbye, Inspector.’ He sounded relieved.
Hardcastle paused as if a sudden thought had occurred to him. ‘Would you mind if I had a look around your stables, Captain Lucas? I’m rather taken with racehorses. Lovely creatures.’
‘By all means, Inspector. You’ll find the head stable lad there somewhere. He knows more about the animals than I do. Padraig O’Reilly is his name. He might even give you a tip for next week’s Brighton meeting. Allow me to show you out by the back door. That’s the quickest way to the stables.’
‘How long have you had an interest in racehorses, sir?’ asked Marriott once Lucas had closed the door on him and Hardcastle.
‘Ever since I decided that the head stable lad might be a useful source of information, Marriott. I don’t think Lucas is being open with us at all. He pretends to be innocent and naïve but I think he’s far sharper than he lets on. After all, you don’t go through the war without developing a bit of cunning.’
‘Can I help you, sir?’ The man who approached the detectives pulled briefly at the peak of his cloth cap. He was short and bow-legged, and wore a tweed hacking jacket, breeches and riding boots. He had the rugged appearance of a man between forty and fifty but was probably no older than thirty.
‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’
‘You’ll be from Epsom, I’m thinking. Padraig O’Reilly at your service, gentlemen. A look at the horses, is it?’
‘I’m investigating a serious matter, Mr O’Reilly,’ said Hardcastle, not bothering to correct O’Reilly’s inaccurate assumption, ‘and our conversation must remain confidential. Not even Lord Slade or the captain must know of it, otherwise the question of criminal conspiracy might have to be considered. Do you understand?’
‘Oh, indeed I do, sir.’ O’Reilly appeared to be suitably impressed, even slightly worried.
Marriott was uncertain what the DDI was driving at when he talked of criminal conspiracy but decided that it was a device to scare the head stable lad into keeping quiet.
‘You remember Miss Musgrave coming down here, Mr O’Reilly, don’t you?’
‘Indeed I do, sir. As beautiful a young filly as ever I did see. I think the captain’s a lucky fellow to have a peach of a girl like that on his arm. Fair smitten, he is.’
‘Yes, he was just saying the same thing,’ said Hardcastle affably, as though he had only come here to discuss the girl’s attributes.
‘Has she been here often, Mr O’Reilly?’ asked Marriott.
‘Oh, at least a half-dozen times, sir.’
‘And was she here the weekend before last?’
‘The weekend before last? Now, let me see. That’d be the fifth of April, the Saturday, I’m thinking. That was the weekend of the Kempton Park meeting. We never had anything running in that. Yes, I do believe she was here. In fact, I know she was here.’
&nbs
p; ‘And when did she leave, Mr O’Reilly?’
‘Sure, it must’ve been the Monday morning. Mind you, sir, I never saw her going but I remember cook telling me – when I went in for me meal – that the young lady hadn’t been down for breakfast. Is that a help with this – what was it you called it, sir? Criminal conspiracy?’
‘Very much so, Mr O’Reilly,’ said Hardcastle warmly. ‘And as I said, this must remain confidential between us.’
‘I’m glad to have been of help to you, sir.’
The two detectives walked back to their waiting cab.
‘Are you going to confront Captain Lucas with that, sir?’ asked Marriott.
‘No, Marriott. I’ll keep that up my sleeve for the time being. Apart from anything else, Lucas would know who’d told us and I want to keep O’Reilly as a useful informant. I think there’s more to this business than meets the eye.’
FOURTEEN
On the following morning, Hardcastle sent for Marriott.
‘I want two reliable officers that I can send down to Epsom, Marriott.’
‘To Slade House, sir?’
‘No, to the racecourse and to Epsom town itself. What was the name of that pub that’s popular with the racing folk? Gandy mentioned it in his report.’
‘The Spread Eagle, sir. Might I suggest Catto and Keeler, sir? They were the two that I sent to bring the Musgrave girl back here last month.’
‘Not Catto. I want someone trustworthy.’
Marriott knew it was no good arguing. ‘What are these officers to do in Epsom, sir?’
‘Keep their eyes and ears open,’ said Hardcastle. ‘If the tittle-tattle is as good as Gandy says it is our men might just pick up something about the goings-on at Slade House. I’m bloody certain that Lucas wasn’t telling the truth when he said that Lily wasn’t his personal guest at the weekend in question. And then we have Padraig O’Reilly, who I think could be a useful source of information. Finally, there’s Sidebottom, the butler, who said there are men and women there almost every weekend. Mind you, Marriott, I don’t think he knows A from a bull’s foot. But someone might know something.’
‘Who d’you suggest we send, then, sir?’
‘Wood’s a mature man,’ said Hardcastle after a moment or two. ‘What about Wilmot?’
‘Up at the Bailey this week with a robbery, sir.’
‘So he is, so he is. What’s the name of that Irish fellow at Rochester Row? A chap in his forties.’
‘I think you mean Liam Bodkin, sir, a DC.’
‘That’s the fellow,’ said Hardcastle, rubbing his hands together. ‘Just the man to get alongside Padraig O’Reilly. Provided the head stable lad gets in the pubs around Epsom, but I’ve yet to meet an Irishman who doesn’t enjoy the occasional wet. Get in touch with Mr Neville, the DI at Rochester Row, tell him I want to borrow Bodkin for a few days and to send him over tout de suite.’
‘But Bodkin might be on another job, sir.’ It was Marriott’s job to point out administrative problems of that sort, as he had just mentioned Wilmot’s case at the Central Criminal Court.
‘Then tell Mr Neville to take him off it, whatever it is, Marriott.’ Hardcastle was beginning to display a measure of exasperation. ‘Those two are smart enough detectives to find out if something odd’s going on. And I’m sure there is. Fetch ’em in when Bodkin gets here.’
It was half an hour later when Detective Sergeant Wood was followed into the DDI’s office by Detective Constable Liam Bodkin, another long-serving CID officer who, like Wood, was not far off retirement. Consequently, neither of them was the slightest bit intimidated by Hardcastle, who they regarded as something of a dinosaur, even though the three of them were of comparable age.
Hardcastle outlined what he required of the two detectives.
‘How long d’you want us to stay down there, sir?’ asked DS Wood.
‘As long as it takes,’ said Hardcastle, a comment that would have beset Catto with a nervous paroxysm. But not Wood.
‘That’s not very helpful, sir,’ said Wood. ‘It might take a day or it might take a week. And what about expenses?’
‘You can go down to Epsom by train, Wood, and you can charge the difference between that fare and the fare you normally charge to go from here to your home address.’ Hardcastle knew the regulations regarding claims for expenses almost word perfect. But so did Wood.
‘I live in Victoria, sir. I travel to and from work by bicycle. So I presume I can charge the whole fare between London and Epsom.’
‘I’m in the same boat, sir,’ put in Bodkin. ‘I live in the section house over the nick at Rochester Row. All I have to do is walk downstairs to get to work.’
‘Oh, very well, then,’ said Hardcastle tetchily, convinced that these two officers were being deliberately obstructive, ‘but make sure the Metropolitan Police gets value for its money.’
‘When d’you want us to start, sir?’ asked Wood, ignoring the DDI’s last petty comment.
Hardcastle took out his half-hunter, gave it a brief wind and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket. ‘It’s a quarter to ten now. You should be able to get down there by midday.’
‘I never thought the guv’nor would give us a job like this, Bert,’ said Bodkin as he pushed open the door of the Spread Eagle Hotel in Epsom High Street. ‘But I thought you might’ve tried to get our drinks included in expenses as well.’
‘I’m sure we’ll be able to slip them in somehow, so that the guv’nor doesn’t notice.’
Both officers had changed into clothing better suited to a country district like Epsom, but it was more for comfort than a concern about being recognized as policemen.
‘What’ll it be, gents?’ asked the barman in the saloon bar.
‘A couple of pints of your best,’ said Wood.
‘Coming up, sir.’ The barman pulled two pints of the best bitter and placed them in front of the two detectives. ‘Down for the racing, are you, gents?’
‘The racing?’ queried Bodkin, his face a picture of innocence. ‘Of course I’m interested in the racing,’ he added, adopting his native Galway accent. ‘Where is it, then?’
‘Up at Tattenham Corner.’ The barman seemed to have difficulty appreciating that this man, and an Irishman at that, did not realize that they were in the very town where the world-famous Derby was held.
‘Unfortunately, we’ve got other fish to fry today,’ said Bodkin. ‘We’re in the mole-catching business, you see. Got a job down at the Woodcote Park golf course but we thought we’d stop off here for a pint and a bite to eat. If you hear of anyone wanting a mole-catcher, tip me the wink and there’ll be a drink in it for you.’
‘Are you sure about that job at Woodcote Park?’ asked the barman. ‘It’s occupied by the Canadian Army and the last I heard they had their tents all over the golf course.’
‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Bodkin. ‘Did you hear that, Bert?’ He shook his head. ‘I reckon we’ve been taken for a ride. Who was it who said this job was going? Anyway,’ he continued, trying to avoid any further questions, ‘what’ve you got to eat in this wonderful establishment?’
‘We do some very good sandwiches,’ said the barman. ‘Ham, chicken, cheese, turkey. I’ll get you the menu.’
‘Don’t you do any fourpenny cannons?’ asked Wood.
The barman looked bewildered. ‘What on earth’s a fourpenny cannon?’
Wood laughed. ‘We should’ve remembered we’re in the country now, Liam.’ He turned back to the barman. ‘That’s what we call a steak-and-kidney pie up the Smoke. But you country folk wouldn’t know that.’
The barman laughed. ‘Well, you should’ve said so. Of course we’ve got ’em, and Cornish pasties, too. A couple of your fourpenny cannons, then, gents? Nice and hot.’
After the steak-and-kidney pies were served, Wood bought more beer for himself and Bodkin. He also bought a drink for the barman on the grounds that barmen are good listeners, and with the right sort of cultivation can also be useful infor
mants.
‘I’ve heard that there’s a big house near here owned by a lord, so they tell me. I was wondering if he’d have any work for us. In the mole-catching business, like.’
‘You’re likely talking about Slade House,’ said the barman. ‘There are racing stables there, too, and they’re owned by Lord Slade. But I don’t know if he has trouble with moles. Well, talk of the devil, here’s His Lordship’s head stable lad just walked in. Padraig O’Reilly’s his name. Excuse me, gents. I’ll see what he wants.’
‘I’ll pay for it,’ volunteered Bodkin. ‘Tell him it’s from one Irishman to another.’
Once he had been served with a pint of Guinness and the barman had pointed out Wood and Bodkin, O’Reilly moved along the bar to join them.
‘The barman tells me I have you to thank for the drink, friend, and he tells me you’re from dear old Ireland.’
‘That I am. Liam Bodkin’s the name.’ He held out a hand.
‘Padraig O’Reilly.’ The head stable lad shook hands.
‘And this is my mate, Bert Wood,’ said Bodkin. In a stage whisper, he added: ‘But he’s a Londoner.’
‘Top o’ the morning to you,’ said O’Reilly, shaking hands. ‘Jim the barman said you’re in the mole-catching business.’
‘That we are,’ said Bodkin, ‘but there’s not a lot of work about these days. We thought we’d been lucky enough to get a job down at Woodcote Park this afternoon but the barman’s just told us there’s Canadian troops camped all over it.’
‘Where are you from?’ asked O’Reilly, signalling for another round of drinks.
‘Galway,’ said Bodkin. ‘And yourself?’
‘Waterford. Other side of Ireland.’
‘The barman was saying you’re from the big house.’ Bodkin decided to push O’Reilly in the hope of getting some useful information. The last thing that Wood and Bodkin wanted was work as mole-catchers. Neither of them knew anything about the trade.