by Graham Ison
‘Why was Lily crying her eyes out in the garden on the Sunday evening of that weekend?’ asked Hardcastle, although he was only guessing it was Lily.
‘I didn’t know anything about that.’ The question had come as a surprise to Lucas and it was confirmed by his shocked reaction.
‘I want the names of all those attending this party of yours, Captain Lucas. And I do mean everyone.’
‘And if I’m not prepared to tell you?’ Lucas raised his head slightly and peered down his nose at the DDI.
‘In that case you leave me no alternative but to arrest you.’ Hardcastle paused. ‘On the other hand, I could ask Lord Slade what he knows about this whole affair.’
The threat of speaking to his father was obviously far more worrying to Lucas than the prospect of being arrested. Hardcastle imagined that, with his money, Lucas would probably be able to field an army of smart lawyers who would argue that he was not guilty of obstruction at all. But smart lawyers would not help him if Lord Slade took a sudden decision to disinherit his son of the considerable Slade estate.
‘All right. They were—’
As Lucas began to recite the names, Hardcastle held up his hand. ‘Write them down for me in Sergeant Marriott’s pocketbook, Captain Lucas, and don’t forget to add details of where I can reach them.’
Lucas was able to write the names and addresses of the guests without any hesitation; they were obviously all well known to him.
Hardcastle cast a cursory glance over the names and handed the book back to Lucas. ‘Sign it,’ he said. ‘Very well, Captain Lucas, I’ll let you get on with your breakfast.’
‘I’ve had that list typed out, sir,’ said Marriott, and handed it to the DDI. ‘Isn’t there a possibility that Lucas will contact these people and that they’ll manufacture some excuses and alibis, sir?’
‘I’m sure they will, Marriott. I’m sure they will. Then we’ll at least have a conspiracy to charge them with in the absence of something more serious, and concocted alibis are easier to disprove.’ Hardcastle, hands in his pockets and puffing furiously at his pipe, was standing at his office window glaring down at a train passing through Westminster Underground station below. ‘I’m going to prepare an information for the Bow Street magistrate,’ he said, turning suddenly. ‘I intend to search Slade House, its grounds and stables tomorrow, Friday. And if the search lasts all weekend, I don’t care what social arrangements of Lucas’s little gang it buggers up.’
‘But what d’you hope to find, sir?’
‘Lily Musgrave’s body, Marriott.’
On the Friday morning, confident that his search warrant would be granted, Hardcastle sent for Marriott.
‘We’ll need four officers to assist us in the search, Marriott. We’ll take Wood, Bodkin and Lipton. I suppose Wilmot’s still up at the Bailey?’
‘Not today, sir, but the case is still running.’
‘In that case, I suppose it’d better be Catto, but keep an eye on him.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott wearily. ‘Is it wise to take Wood and Bodkin, sir? O’Reilly thinks they’re mole-catchers.’
Hardcastle laughed. ‘If we’re lucky, they’ll turn out to be rat-catchers now. Anyway, it doesn’t matter any longer what O’Reilly thinks. It’s a rum set-up down there, and for all I know O’Reilly might be mixed up in this business. Once you’ve detailed the officers I mentioned, tell Wood to assemble them in the road outside the entrance to Slade House but to keep them out of sight. I’ll give you a time later on.’ He pulled out his watch. ‘Time we were off to Bow Street, Marriott.’
‘The court’s not sitting today, sir.’
‘Not sitting? Why not?’
‘Today is Good Friday, sir. No courts are sitting, which is why Wilmot’s not at the Bailey. I thought you’d realized that, sir.’
‘Of course I did, damn it!’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘It’d temporarily slipped me mind. But it’s essential that we search Slade House without delay. Well, don’t keep me in suspense, Marriott. What arrangements have you made to get me a warrant?’
‘The nearest stipendiary available this morning is Mr Archibald Prevett who normally sits at Rochester Row police court. I think you know him, sir.’
‘Of course I know him. Taken two or three jobs in front of him. Where’s he live?’
‘In Chadwick Street, sir.’
‘See if you can find a cab. I suppose the cab drivers’ religious principles don’t prevent them from working on a Good Friday,’ said the DDI sarcastically.
Hardcastle knocked on Archibald Prevett’s door at a couple of minutes after ten o’clock.
‘Good morning, Mr Hardcastle.’ Prevett himself opened the door. ‘Step inside.’ The magistrate showed the DDI and Marriott into his morning room. ‘What can I do for you this morning?’
‘I apologize for disturbing you on a bank holiday, sir, but I’d be obliged for a search warrant.’ Hardcastle handed over his ‘information’.
Prevett read quickly through the document. ‘Lord Slade’s place, eh?’ he said, but made no further comment. He handed Hardcastle a copy of the New Testament. ‘You don’t need the card with the words on it, do you, Mr Hardcastle?’ he asked with a chuckle.
‘No, sir.’ Hardcastle held the book in his right hand. ‘I swear by Almighty God that this information is true to the best of my knowledge, and I will true answer make to any such questions as the court shall demand of me.’
But the magistrate had no questions. He signed the warrant and handed it to the DDI. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for, Mr Hardcastle.’
‘I have every confidence, sir,’ said Hardcastle. It was not a confidence shared by Marriott.
‘Are you after my job, Ernie?’ asked Fowler when Hardcastle appeared, yet again, in the W Division DDI’s office at Brixton police station. ‘You’re up and down to my bailiwick like a fiddler’s elbow. And on a Good Friday, too.’
‘I’m not ready to be put out to grass yet, Connie.’ Having indulged in the usual badinage that was the precursor to any conversation between policemen, Hardcastle got down to business. ‘As a courtesy, I thought I’d let you know that I’ve got a warrant to search Lord Slade’s place down at Epsom.’
‘That should put His Lordship in a wax, Ernie. I hope he ain’t religious. What are you looking for anyway – evidence of racehorse nobbling?’
‘No, a dead body. If I do, Connie, it’ll be your job as it’s on your manor, unless you want me to take it over.’
‘Is this all connected with your Lily Musgrave job?’ asked Fowler.
‘Yes, it is.’ Hardcastle went on to explain briefly what Wood and Bodkin had learned from Slade’s head stable lad and the outcome of his interview with Captain Oscar Lucas. ‘And if I’m right, it’ll be her body I find.’
‘I’m only a simple policeman, Ernie, and this all sounds much too complicated for me,’ said Fowler with a laugh. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you can have it. Anyway, I’m sure Mr Wensley wouldn’t want this job split between two DDIs. But it might be as well to square it with him before you go to court. If you get to court,’ he added, knowing how often policemen were disappointed in their quest for evidence.
‘I was wondering if you could spare me a couple of your detectives to lend a hand, Connie. I’ve got four of my lads on their way to Epsom now but some help would be appreciated.’
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Ernie,’ said Fowler, ‘I’ll let you have Gandy, and as he’s the first-class sergeant at Epsom he knows the ground like the back of his hand and he can pick another DC from his lot down there. By the time you get to Slade House he’ll he waiting for you nearby.’
‘I’m much obliged, Connie, and I’ll let you know how we get on.’
‘Gandy can do that, Ernie.’ Fowler glanced at Marriott. ‘On your way out, Skipper, ask my clerk to come in and I’ll get Gandy up on his pins. That’ll ruin his Good Friday for him.’
‘What does Mr Fowler want a clerk for, Marriott?’ muttered H
ardcastle, but then he stopped, realizing that he was obliquely criticizing a senior officer to a junior one.
It was almost two o’clock that afternoon by the time Hardcastle was able finally to address his team in the road near the entrance to Slade House.
‘How well d’you know the stable area, Gandy?’
‘Been there a few times, sir,’ said Detective Sergeant Gandy.
‘You start searching the stable area, then. Take your own man with you, and you can have DS Wood and Bodkin. That’ll give O’Reilly a surprise. The rest of you come with me, and when we’ve finished searching the house we’ll start on the grounds and what’s not been covered in the stables. But wait until I’ve served the warrant.’
Hardcastle, accompanied by Marriott and Catto, walked up the drive and knocked loudly on the front door. When Sidebottom opened it, he peered closely at the DDI.
‘I’ve seen you somewhere before, sir.’
‘Yes, you have. It was last Tuesday when I came down to see Captain Lucas.’
‘D’you want to see him again, then?’ asked Sidebottom.
‘If he’s here.’ Hardcastle was surprised that Lucas was back at Slade House but perhaps he was anticipating the return of A Division’s senior detective.
‘Come in, sir, and I’ll see if I can find him. Oh, there’s three of you,’ Sidebottom exclaimed as Hardcastle was followed by Marriott and Catto.
It was not long before Lucas appeared in the drawing room. ‘What on earth d’you want now, Inspector? Am I to be hounded constantly by you until you find this wretched Musgrave girl?’
‘That’s it in a nutshell, Captain Lucas. And it would help me, and might even help you, if you were to tell me what you know about her disappearance from this house the weekend before last.’
‘I’ve told you all I know,’ said Lucas in a tired voice, ‘and I really think it’s time I consulted a solicitor about this badgering of yours. You have absolutely nothing to indicate that I know anything about this girl.’
‘If I were you, Captain Lucas, I’d wait until we’ve finished before you speak to your solicitor. You might have something really important to discuss with him then.’
‘Such as?’
‘This for a start.’ Hardcastle took out the search warrant and held it up. ‘This is a warrant signed by a stipendiary magistrate empowering me and my officers to search this house, its grounds and stables.’ As Lucas went to take the warrant, Hardcastle drew it back out of his reach. ‘You may read it but not take it.’ The DDI had known of careless detectives who had handed over a warrant only to see it cast into the fire.
‘A search warrant,’ exclaimed Lucas. ‘But what on earth do you hope to find?’
‘Evidence that will indicate where Miss Lily Musgrave has gone,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Or that suggests she didn’t go anywhere. In which case, I hope to find her dead body.’
Lucas slumped into an armchair, his face ashen, and the tic in his left eyelid began again. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting that she’s been murdered here in this house, are you?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m suggesting, Captain Lucas. Catto, go down to the road and tell DS Gandy and the rest of them to start.’
SIXTEEN
‘Right, Bert,’ said DS Gandy as he and DS Wood and the other two arrived at the stables, ‘we’ll make a start.’
Padraig O’Reilly emerged from one of the stalls and immediately recognized DS Wood and DC Bodkin. ‘Don’t tell me you and Liam have been given the job of catching moles on the estate, Bert. Does His Lordship think I don’t know how to put paid to the little beggars?’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, Padraig,’ said Wood, ‘but we’re not mole-catchers, we’re police officers, as are these gentlemen,’ he added, indicating the other two detectives. ‘And I think you know Sergeant Gandy, anyway.’
O’Reilly’s chin dropped. ‘Holy Mary, mother of God!’ he exclaimed, taking off his cap and scratching his head. ‘And why in the name of old Ireland were you spinning me that yarn about the mole-catching when I was in the Spread Eagle the day before yesterday?’
Confronted by four policemen, two of whom he thought were mole-catchers, he was clearly having difficulty grasping what was going on.
‘It was so we could get you to tell us all about the goings-on up at the big house the weekend before last, Padraig. And like the good fellow you are, you did just that.’ Wood saw no reason to keep the truth from O’Reilly any longer because he would have found out sooner or later. And right now it might be of some advantage to question the head stable lad while he was still coming to terms with the deception perpetrated on him by the police.
‘How well d’you know these stables and grounds, Paddy?’ asked Gandy.
‘Like the back of my hand,’ said O’Reilly, ‘despite only having been here since last November. Why d’you ask? And, by the way, the name’s Padraig, not Paddy.’
‘Oh, I am sorry,’ said Gandy with mock sincerity. ‘Well, Padraig, have you noticed any disturbance in the earth anywhere around the stables or in the grounds?’
But O’Reilly was prevented from giving an answer by the clatter of a horse’s hooves on the cobblestones behind the assembled group. As a stanhope drew to a halt, a man alighted. He was of middling height, but lean and probably somewhere between sixty and seventy years of age; it was difficult to estimate with any degree of accuracy. His tweed hacking jacket, riding breeches and highly polished boots were of good quality and his bristly moustache and heavy, unkempt eyebrows lent him a fierce expression that was matched by his character the moment he opened his mouth.
‘Good day to you, My Lord,’ said O’Reilly, whipping off his cap and half-bowing.
‘What the devil’s going on here, O’Reilly?’ Lord Slade pointed his riding crop first at the luckless head stable lad, and then waved it in a circular movement as if encompassing the entire estate. ‘Unharness the damned horse, will you, and feed the brute. And the carriage needs a damned good cleaning, too. A bit of elbow grease, that’s what it needs. Who does it?’
‘It’s Makin, My Lord, the new stable lad.’
‘Well, put your boot up his arse and tell him to get the job done properly, otherwise you can kick the bugger out without any pay.’ Slade turned his attention to the four detectives. ‘Who are you, and what the hell are you doing snooping around my stables, eh? If I thought for a minute you were tampering with their feed, I’d have the police on you in a second.’
‘We are the police, Lord Slade,’ said Gandy.
‘The police?’ Slade’s monocle dropped from his eye. ‘What the devil are you doing here on Good Friday, then? And what was this about a disturbance in the grounds you were talking to O’Reilly about, eh?’
‘I think it might be for the best if you spoke to our inspector, Lord Slade,’ said Wood. ‘He’s searching the house at the moment.’
‘Searching my bloody house?’ spluttered Slade, his red face becoming even redder as, in a rage, he danced about waving his riding crop. ‘Who is this damned man who has the audacity to come down here and search me damned house, eh? Answer me that.’ He could hardly get the words out, such was his loss of self-control.
‘It’s Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, Lord Slade.’
‘Whitehall? What the hell’s a Whitehall man doing down here at Epsom poking about in me damned property, eh? Answer me that.’ But without waiting for an answer, Slade strode off towards the house, thrashing his right boot with his riding crop and muttering ‘Whitehall!’ over and over again.
‘I think you’ve upset His Lordship,’ said O’Reilly. It was a masterful understatement of the effect the arrival of the police had had on Slade, particularly when he had learned that his house was being searched.
Hardcastle was still talking to Captain Oscar Lucas when the door to the drawing room flew open, crashing back on to an ornamental table.
‘What the hell’s going on here, Oscar, eh? Answer me that, boy.’
‘I wasn’t talking to you, whoever you are.’
‘Well, I’m talking to you,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘I’m a police officer and I’m about to search this house, the stables and the grounds. Anyone, and I mean anyone, who gets in my way will be arrested for obstructing me in the execution of a justice’s search warrant granted by the Chief Metropolitan Magistrate at Bow Street police court this morning.’ The DDI thought that naming the chief magistrate was more impressive than talking of a stipendiary who had been disturbed at his home.
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Lord Slade, recognizing in Hardcastle a man who refused to be bullied by his blustering. He sank on to a leather Chesterfield, one of three with which the room was furnished. ‘Well, who are you? Some damned fellow down at the stables said you were from Whitehall.’
‘That’s correct. I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the A or Whitehall Division.’
‘Well, that don’t explain what you’re doing here.’
Hardcastle sat down on the settee facing the one occupied by Lord Slade. His son Oscar, looking increasingly anguished, occupied the third settee. ‘I’m looking for the body of a young woman.’
‘A body? A young woman? What on earth are you talking about, Inspector? Perhaps you’d better explain what the hell this business is all about.’
Beginning with Austen Musgrave’s original complaint to the Commissioner that his daughter Lily had gone missing, Hardcastle launched into a full account of what he had learned so far. ‘In view of the fact that this young woman was not seen after the evening of Sunday the sixth of April, and that none of the people I’ve interviewed admit to seeing her leave these premises, I can only conclude that she’s dead and her body is secreted somewhere on your estate.’
Lord Slade leaned back against the cushions of his settee, apparently deep in contemplation. But he did not remain tranquil for long.
‘What the hell have you been playing at while I’ve been across the water, boy?’ Slade shouted at his alarmed son. ‘You can answer that later this evening, assuming this officer has not clapped you in irons. In the meantime, ring the bloody bell and tell that excuse for a butler to get some whiskey up here. I take it you’re not averse to a few fingers of Jameson, Inspector?’