by Graham Ison
‘I suppose she wasn’t pregnant, was she, Doctor?’
‘No, she wasn’t.’ Spilsbury glanced at Hardcastle, knowing that the DDI always had a reason for posing a question. ‘Why d’you ask?’
‘She was described by one of her male admirers as a young woman of “easy virtue”, and another of those admirers claimed to have had sexual intercourse with her three times, but in my view, probably more often. From what I’ve learned about this little club, I imagine he wasn’t the only one she obliged.’
‘She certainly wasn’t a virgin, but perhaps she was just lucky not to finish up pregnant,’ said Spilsbury as he sewed up the girl’s body. ‘It might be a good idea to have the cadaver removed to my hospital at Paddington tomorrow morning, Hardcastle, just in case there are any more questions you or the coroner need answering. And it might be as well if I were to have another look at it in the morning, but that said, I think it’s fairly safe to say that death was due to a gunshot wound. In the meantime,’ he said, turning to Hughes, ‘might the police impose on your goodwill by keeping the cadaver in your mortuary overnight, Doctor Hughes?’
‘Most certainly, Doctor Spilsbury. I’ll arrange it immediately.’
‘There will have to be a police guard on it until it’s removed to Paddington tomorrow, Doctor Hughes,’ said Hardcastle. ‘It’s a question of continuity of evidence.’
‘I’ll get hold of Sergeant Gandy and arrange a guard and transport, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘Doctor Hughes, might I use a telephone?’
‘Of course. The attendant here will show you where it is.’
Spilsbury took out a letter containing a bill from his tailor and made a few notes on the back of the envelope about the examination he had just conducted.
Hardcastle was in his office, as usual, by eight o’clock on the Saturday morning. After lighting his pipe, he shouted for Marriott.
Catto appeared in the doorway. ‘Er, Sergeant Marriott’s not in the office, sir.’
‘Well, where is he? Has he arrived yet? What’s going on, Catto?’ Hardcastle made it sound as though the unavailability of Marriott was entirely Catto’s fault. At least, that was how Catto saw it.
‘Oh, yes, sir, he’s here, sir, but he’s not here,’ stuttered Catto, ‘if you know what I mean.’ Seeing the DDI’s deepening frown, he added, ‘But he went straight across to Mr Franklin’s office.’
Detective Inspector Percy Franklin was the Metropolitan Police’s ballistics expert. Closeted in a small room near the top of Scotland Yard, his evidence was vital in any murder case that involved firearms.
‘Tell Sergeant Marriott to see me the moment he gets back, Catto. Now get about your duties.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Less than five minutes later, Marriott knocked on Hardcastle’s open door.
‘Ah, Marriott. What did Mr Franklin have to say about our bullet?’
‘He confirmed that it was a military issue round, four-point-five calibre, sir. Once we have the weapon, he said he’ll be able to compare the striations on the round to the rifling in the barrel of the revolver.’
‘He always says that,’ muttered Hardcastle gloomily, ‘but no more than I expected him to say. Now, Marriott, we have the unpleasant task of telling Mr Austen Musgrave that we’ve found his daughter.’
It was nine o’clock when Hardcastle and Marriott alighted from their cab outside Musgrave’s house in Vincent Square.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Crabb as he opened the door. ‘I’m afraid the master hasn’t risen yet.’
Hardcastle stepped past the butler. ‘Get him now, Crabb. This is a matter of some importance.’
‘Well, sir, I’m not sure that I ought to—’
‘Don’t argue with me, Crabb, just do it,’ said Hardcastle wearily. ‘Sergeant Marriott and I will be in the morning room.’
Crabb hastened away, muttering to himself. He did not like the inspector and was sure that the inspector did not like him. He was also concerned that the inspector might discover that he was falsifying the wine account. He also suspected Mrs Briggs, the cook, was not being altogether honest when it came to rendering the monthly household accounts to the master. Not that they needed to have worried; Musgrave only cast a cursory glance over any of the household accounts. What both he and Mrs Briggs most feared, albeit separately, was that one day Sarah Gillard might become mistress of the house.
It was at least twenty minutes before Austen Musgrave appeared in the morning room. On this occasion, he was wearing a dressing gown of bright red silk that was only long enough to cover his knees. And, unlike the last time he had received Hardcastle, he was barefooted and tousle-haired.
‘This is an unearthly hour on a Saturday to call on me, Inspector,’ snapped Musgrave. ‘For God’s sake, man, you could have come later, surely?’ He had a frown on his face, as though he expected underlings like mere policemen to be aware of the customs of the leisured classes. The real reason, which Hardcastle had guessed anyway, was that Musgrave had been forced to leave a bed in which the amorous Sarah Gillard was impatiently awaiting his return. Not only to his displeasure but to her displeasure also.
‘I’d advise you to sit down, Mr Musgrave, before I go on.’ Hardcastle ignored the reproof.
‘You make it sound as though this is something serious, Inspector.’ Nevertheless, Musgrave sat down on one of the settees, his face expressing the sudden realization that Hardcastle may have grave news.
‘I’m afraid your daughter Lily is dead, Mr Musgrave,’ said Hardcastle bluntly. He had long ago decided that there was no easy way to inform people of the violent death of a close relative. It was perhaps a legacy of the Great War that sudden death had become all too commonplace during the four years and three months of its duration. And regrettably was continuing with the advent of the Spanish influenza pandemic.
Musgrave did not immediately react to the news, other than to sit quite still, a stunned expression on his face. He remained like that for two or three minutes, during which time Hardcastle and Marriott relaxed in armchairs. None of them spoke.
‘What happened, Inspector?’ Musgrave asked eventually.
‘She was murdered, sir. Shot. Her body was found in a shallow grave at Slade House where she’d gone with Captain Oscar Lucas the weekend before last.’
‘Have you arrested Lucas yet?’
‘No, Mr Musgrave, I haven’t.’
‘Why not?’ Musgrave demanded, the frown returning.
‘Because there is no evidence at this stage to prove that he was responsible for your daughter’s death.’ Hardcastle went on to explain about the party that had been held at Slade House and that there had been a number of guests, any one of whom could have been responsible.
‘Would it help if I spoke to Sir Nevil Macready, Inspector?’
‘Certainly not. I think I explained the other day that the Commissioner is not empowered to tell me how I should investigate a case of murder or who I should arrest.’ Hardcastle did not mention that the Commissioner was unlikely to see Musgrave again and would most certainly not return any future telephone calls from him.
‘I need to arrange the funeral,’ said Musgrave absently.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the coroner to release your daughter’s body, sir.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
The door to the morning room opened. Sarah Gillard stepped inside and paused, a hand still on the handle. It was, without doubt, a rehearsed theatrical entrance, but she had been told by Crabb who was in the morning room with Musgrave. Her long, black satin robe was neither peignoir nor housecoat; it was more like an evening gown, the like of which Hardcastle had never before seen. Her long hair was loose around her shoulders, but in such a way that she had obviously taken some trouble in carefully disarranging it before coming downstairs, and her face had been treated to some of Mr Max Factor’s products. Satin slippers completed the carefully devised ensemble. Hardcastle had the impression that Sarah Gillard never did anything without c
areful forethought.
‘Austen, darling, what is it? You look awful.’
‘Lily’s dead, murdered,’ said Musgrave flatly.
‘Oh, you poor dear darling, how dreadful.’ Sarah Gillard leaned down to put an arm around Musgrave’s shoulders and shot an accusing glance at Hardcastle. ‘Why was this allowed to happen? I would have thought that you could have prevented it, especially as you knew the poor, innocent girl was missing. Austen told me that your Commissioner was taking an interest in your investigations.’
‘I’ll let you know when Lily’s body is released, Mr Musgrave.’ Hardcastle completely ignored Sarah Gillard’s rantings and stood up.
But Sarah was unwilling to leave the matter alone. ‘Have you arrested someone for this crime?’ she demanded haughtily, thrashing around for someone to blame.
‘No, madam,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘Nor do I expect to do so in the near future.’
‘Well, what on earth are you doing about it? Shouldn’t you be out looking for this killer?’
‘I’ll have him dancing on the hangman’s trap before very long, but these things take time, Miss Gillard. It’s not a theatrical mystery that can be solved in three acts with two intervals. We’ll let ourselves out, Mr Musgrave. Come, Marriott.’
As Hardcastle and Marriott walked out of the room and into the hall, Sarah Gillard could be heard complaining bitterly to Musgrave about ‘that man Hardcastle’s disgraceful insolence’.
‘That woman’s got her foot in the door, Marriott, and she ain’t going to let go,’ said Hardcastle, as they walked around Vincent Square in search of a cab.
‘Bring me that list, Marriott. The names of the men who attended the parties where the naked Lily Musgrave did her song and dance act.’
‘One moment, sir. It’s on my desk.’ Marriott crossed to the detectives’ room, picked up the list and returned to the DDI’s office. ‘There you are, sir.’
‘As well as Lucas, there were Colonel Rendell, Major Toland, Lieutenant Frampton and Doctor Rylance using his butler’s name.’ Hardcastle read the names aloud. ‘And, of course, Major Quilter. He’s too good to be true.’
‘Have you discounted Rylance’s butler Kelsey altogether, sir?’
‘Just a cat’s paw, Marriott. Just a cat’s paw. He was not very happy when he found out that the doctor was using his name and he’d be even less happy if he knew why he was using it. No, we can forget him. Now, they were all at Slade House for the weekend that Lily was murdered. Who were the others?’
‘According to Lucas, sir, there was only one other and his name was Harvey, sir – Randolph Harvey.’
‘Is he an ex-officer as well?’
‘Lucas didn’t know, sir. Or at least he said he didn’t know. And then, of course, there were the six young women including Lily Musgrave.’
‘One for each man,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Not exactly, sir. There were seven men but only six women.’
‘You’re right, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle in a rare admission of his sergeant’s mathematical superiority. ‘Have we got the women’s names?’
‘Yes, sir, but d’you think that one of them was a murderess?’
‘Who’s to tell? It’s a funny world we’re living in now, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle phlegmatically. ‘This bloody war’s changed everything. But we’ll leave them for the time being, although they’ll have to be seen in case one of them saw or heard anything.’
‘When do we start to interview the men, sir?’
Hardcastle pulled out his half-hunter. ‘I’ll decide that after we’ve had our lunch, Marriott. After all, there’s no hurry. The poor lass is dead.’
‘Hello, Inspector.’
Hardcastle put down his pint of bitter and turned. ‘What are you after, Simpson?’
Charlie Simpson, a reporter on the London Daily Chronicle, spent much of his time in the Red Lion, the public house adjacent to New Scotland Yard, in the hope of picking up a snippet. Fortunately for Simpson, there were detectives who would tell him anything he wanted to know for the price of a large whisky, but to his regret, Hardcastle was not one of them.
‘I’ve heard whispers about a topping down Epsom way, Mr Hardcastle. I was wondering if you knew anything about it?’
‘Why should I know anything about what goes on in Epsom, Simpson? Apart from the Derby. I’m in the Whitehall Division. Mr Fowler’s the CID officer responsible for that area, as you undoubtedly know.’
‘Yes, but I heard your name mentioned, Mr Hardcastle.’
‘That don’t surprise me, Simpson. I’m a very popular man. Just ask my sergeant here. Ain’t that true, Marriott?’ Hardcastle enquired jocularly.
‘Very true, sir. Highly popular,’ said Marriott drily.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, Simpson,’ said Hardcastle, ‘I’m having my lunchtime pint and I get very tetchy if people go about interrupting it.’
‘I heard that an MP’s daughter was the one that got murdered. Any truth in that?’ persisted Simpson.
Hardcastle turned his back on the reporter.
‘What we’ll do, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle when they were back in the DDI’s office, ‘is send for each of these men, and we’ll start with Lucas.’
‘He’s probably still down at Epsom, sir, it being Saturday.’
‘He’s got a Lagonda, Marriott. It won’t take him long to get here. Telephone him. Or telephone Lord Slade if he’s there and ask him to send his boy up here.’
‘And if he refuses, sir?’
‘Then I’ll ask Mr Fowler to send his newest detective constable round to Slade House to nick him.’
In the event, Captain Oscar Lucas did not argue. An hour after Marriott had telephoned Slade House he presented himself at Cannon Row police station.
‘There’s a man called Lucas at the front office counter, sir.’ The constable stood in the doorway of the DDI’s office.
‘Yes, I thought there might be, lad,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Bring him up.’
Looking very nervous, Lucas appeared moments later, still wearing the tweeds that he had been wearing the previous day.
‘Was it really necessary to send for me on a Saturday afternoon, Inspector?’ Lucas was incapable of making more than a half-hearted protest.
‘It saved me having to go down to Epsom to arrest you, Lucas. Sit down and tell me what you know about Lily’s murder.’
‘I don’t know anything about it, Inspector.’
Hardcastle adopted a sceptical expression. ‘D’you really expect me to believe that this young woman was murdered at your home and you know nothing about it?’
‘It’s true, Inspector,’ pleaded Lucas desperately.
‘You didn’t hear a revolver shot at any time over the weekend? I take it you know what that sounds like,’ observed Hardcastle sarcastically.
‘No, I heard nothing, and yes, I would know what it sounded like.’
‘Where d’you keep your forty-five Webley revolver, Lucas?’ the DDI asked suddenly.
Lucas opened his mouth in surprise. ‘What makes you think I’ve got a revolver, Inspector?’
‘I don’t have time to discuss the matter, Lucas. Almost every ex-officer I’ve come across hung on to his issue revolver.’
‘But they have to be accounted for. How am I supposed to have kept a revolver?’
‘Quite simple, Captain Lucas,’ said Marriott. ‘I know for a fact that after every big attack the battlefield is littered with abandoned weapons. Rifles for the most part but also a sprinkling of officers’ sidearms.’
‘It’s down at Slade House,’ admitted Lucas.
Hardcastle glanced across the office at Marriott. ‘Be so good as to get on the telephone instrument to Epsom nick and ask Gandy to go up to Slade House and seize Captain Lucas’s revolver, and then to get someone to bring it up here, tout de suite.’ He turned back to Lucas. ‘In the meantime, Captain Lucas, you will be detained here on suspicion of murdering Lily Musgrave.’ The DDI looked over his desk. ‘Pick
him up, Marriott,’ he said, seconds after Lucas had fallen to the floor in a dead faint.
EIGHTEEN
Hardcastle glanced at his watch and decided that to send for Major Max Quilter at seven o’clock on a Saturday evening would cause the club owner a great deal of inconvenience. That pleased Hardcastle, who was becoming increasingly impatient with the attitude of the men with whom he had been dealing of late. It seemed to him that they believed themselves to be above the law, and that included Austen Musgrave, MP, the victim’s father.
‘Who have we got in the office, Marriott?’
‘Catto and Lipton, sir,’ replied Marriott promptly. It was his job to know where all the detectives were at any given time.
‘They’ll do. Send them round to the VanDoo Club and ask Major Quilter if he’d be so good as come to the station. Immediately. And if he refuses, they can have the pleasure of nicking him on suspicion of murdering Lily Musgrave.’
It was exactly the sort of task that Catto enjoyed. Having been given specific directions by Sergeant Marriott as to where he would find Quilter’s office, Catto ignored the doorman of the VanDoo Club in Rupert Street, apart from thrusting his warrant card in the man’s face, and he and Lipton moved swiftly through the club’s premises. Although it was a Saturday evening, and many of the club’s usual clientele were spending the weekend in the country, there was still a sizeable crowd of drinkers and dancers.
Needless to say, Catto and Lipton were not in evening dress and their purposeful stride towards Quilter’s office led quite a few of the revellers to correctly suspect that they were police officers. Thinking that a raid was about to take place, some of them made swiftly for the nearest exit, just to be on the safe side. It was not that they were worried about appearing at Great Marlborough Street police court on Monday; in fact, it would be quite a hoot, but ten o’clock in the morning really was an unearthly hour at which to have to get there. Particularly as next Monday was Easter Monday.
When Catto opened the door of the club owner’s office, he found that Quilter was entertaining a young woman. Draped languidly on a settee and sipping champagne, she was displaying a little more leg than was regarded as seemly. At least by those people who still clung to Victorian values in a rapidly changing post-war society where younger women were seeking emancipation and renewing their demand for the right to vote.