by Graham Ison
‘Who the hell are you and what d’you want? This is a private part of the club.’ Quilter rose aggressively from behind his desk. ‘You’re not members.’
‘We’re police officers, Mr Quilter.’
‘It’s Major Quilter.’
‘Doesn’t really make any difference, Major,’ Catto continued, ‘to the fact that you are required at Cannon Row police station right now for an interview with Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle.’
‘Well, you can tell Hardcastle to go to hell. I’ve got a business to run. If he wants to see me he can call here between ten and eleven on Monday week. I shall be staying with friends until then.’
Catto was thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘Did you bring the handcuffs, Gordon?’ he asked, casually addressing the question to Gordon Lipton.
Lipton made a show of patting his pockets. ‘No, I must’ve forgotten, Henry. I’m awfully sorry.’
For the first time since the arrival of the two police officers, Quilter began to look uneasy at this little charade being played out by Catto and Lipton.
‘In that case, I suppose we’ll have to manage without them.’ Catto turned back to Quilter. ‘As you decline to accompany us voluntarily, Major Quilter, I have no alternative but to arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Lily Musgrave on or about the fifth or sixth of this month.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Quilter sank into his chair, his face suddenly losing its colour. ‘Are you telling me that Lily is dead?’
At that point, the young woman reclining on the settee decided that it would be beneficial to her well-being to leave this distasteful scene. ‘I’ll leave you to get on with your lovely policemen friends, Max, darling,’ she said, slurring her speech and standing up somewhat unsteadily. ‘I’ll see you around, lover.’ And with that disingenuous farewell, she left the office as quickly as the limitations of her skirt and her intake of champagne allowed.
‘For God’s sake, I know nothing of the murder of Lily Musgrave,’ protested Quilter.
‘Which is it to be, then?’ asked Catto, ignoring Quilter’s protestation of innocence. ‘Are you coming voluntarily or do we have to arrest you and have you conveyed to Scotland Yard in a Black Annie?’ The Cannon Row detectives often unnerved their suspects by ominously mentioning Scotland Yard rather than naming their police station. The fact of the matter was that suspects were never taken to the Yard. It was not a police station and had no facilities for detaining prisoners.
‘Thank you for sparing the time to come in,’ said Hardcastle with mock sincerity as Marriott showed Max Quilter into the DDI’s office.
‘After your officers threatened to arrest me, I didn’t see that I had much option,’ said Quilter.
‘Threatened to arrest you, did they, Major Quilter? Surely not.’ Hardcastle raised his eyebrows. ‘Good gracious! There was no need for them to have done that. I’m sure you’d have been willing. Do have a word with them, Marriott. Can’t have my men going around threatening people. Now, do sit down, Major Quilter.’
‘I suppose they were also lying when they said that Lily Musgrave had been murdered.’ Quilter sprawled in the chair and took out a gold cigarette case from which he extracted a Turkish cigarette.
‘Alas no. She was murdered just over two weeks ago at Slade House in Epsom.’
‘I really don’t see how you expect me to know anything about that, Inspector. And I can only presume that’s why you had me dragged down here.’
‘I thought you might know something about it as you were at Slade House that weekend, along with six other men from your unsavoury little group, and six young women, including the unfortunate Lily Musgrave.’
Quilter sat forward in his chair. ‘Who told you I was there?’ he demanded.
‘Oscar Lucas,’ said Marriott, who was standing behind Quilter. ‘In fact, he’s told us quite a lot. Despite your denials, we now know that you had sexual intercourse with Lily more than once. We also know that you and others were present at Colonel Rendell’s house in Old Queen Street on several occasions when Lily entertained you all by taking off her clothes.’
‘Oscar Lucas has peached on the lot of you, Quilter,’ said Hardcastle, further adding to the club owner’s discomfort. ‘And now you can tell me where you keep the army issue Webley revolver Lucas said you neglected to hand in when you resigned your commission.’ Lucas had made no such statement, but Hardcastle always found it useful to ‘gild the lily’ slightly and lead his suspects into believing that their so-called friends had turned on them. He knew, better than most, that there was no honour among thieves. And even less among murderers, for that matter.
‘Damn the man,’ muttered Quilter. ‘No more than I expected from someone in the Connaught Rangers. All right, so I hung on to my revolver for personal protection. There are some very nasty characters, mainly Maltese, running rackets in the West End, and they’ll stop at nothing, and I do mean nothing. But I daresay you know all about that, Inspector.’
‘You still haven’t told me where it is, Quilter.’
‘At the club, of course.’
‘Did you take it with you when you spent the weekend at Slade House?’
‘Of course not. Why would I need a gun down there?’
‘Very well¸ Quilter. I’ll send two of my officers to your club to take possession of your revolver. You can tell Sergeant Marriott here exactly where it is.’
‘What right have you to take it?’
‘Have you got a licence for it?’
‘No.’
‘Then you’ve answered your own question,’ said Hardcastle, by no means sure that Quilter had contravened the Pistols Act, but certain that Quilter would not know either. ‘Marriott, send Catto and Lipton to fetch the major’s firearm, once he’s told you where it is. And you’ll be detained here until they get back, Quilter.’
‘Are you charging me?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then you can’t keep me here.’
‘I can easily charge you with suspicion of murder, if that’s what you want,’ said Hardcastle.
And so it went on. Over the next few days, Hardcastle and his detectives interviewed most of the men who had been at the now infamous Slade House party.
Each of the party-goers who had held on to his service-issue revolver surrendered it voluntarily, albeit reluctantly. Detective Inspector Percy Franklin, the ballistics expert, had compared each weapon against the round that had killed Lily Musgrave but none of them had matched. Lieutenant Carl Frampton, of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, had been released from active service once hostilities had ceased and had not retained his sidearm, archly pointing out that the navy was stricter about such matters than the army.
The men who had been interviewed about revolvers were also asked what, if anything, they had seen or heard during the fateful weekend of Lily’s death. None of them could assist, apart from one or two of them who told Hardcastle that they had last seen Lily after dinner on the Sunday. Each one had presumed that she had gone to bed with one of their number, but did not know who.
There were, however, two of the men who had yet to be traced. The whereabouts of the mysterious Randolph Harvey seemed to be unknown. No one admitted having invited Harvey to Slade House, and that included Oscar Lucas, although he had put the man’s name on the list. He could now not recall why he had done so. Colonel Rendell said that he thought he was at one of the parties at his house at Old Queen Street when Lily performed her risqué cabaret, but was by no means certain.
Hardcastle decided to widen the enquiry by having the women interviewed. One by one, they were spoken to, but not one of them was prepared to admit having any knowledge of Lily’s murder. None of them knew where she had gone after dinner on the Sunday. By dint of persistent questioning, each of the girls was persuaded to disclose with whom they had slept on that fateful night. This revealed an interesting fact: none of them had slept with Dr Jack Rylance, the Harley Street physician.
It therefore be
came a matter of some urgency to interview Rylance. Detective Constable Henry Catto was despatched to Wilton Street to bring the doctor to the station, either voluntarily or under arrest.
Rylance’s butler, Roland Kelsey, told Catto that his master was undertaking a tour of the battlefields in France and was believed to be somewhere in the area around the river Somme. Rylance, said Kelsey, should be returning on Sunday the twenty-seventh of April. Weather in the English Channel permitting, of course.
Therefore, at ten o’clock on the morning of Monday the twenty-eighth of April 1919, Hardcastle and Marriott knocked on the door of Rylance’s Wilton Street house.
‘I’m afraid you’ve just missed him, Inspector,’ said the butler.
‘Where’s he gone then?’
‘To his Harley Street consulting rooms, Inspector. At least, that’s where he said he was going.’
‘Did you by any chance tell him I was looking for him, Kelsey?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Yes, I did, sir. Last night when he arrived back from France. The ferry was held up and consequently the boat train was late in arriving at Victoria, at the South Eastern and Chatham terminal, that would be, sir.’
‘What is the exact address in Harley Street, Kelsey?’ asked Marriott, and then wrote down the details at the butler’s dictation.
‘I ain’t happy about Doctor Rylance, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle as the two detectives walked down Wilton Street towards Grosvenor Place in search of a cab. ‘And come to that, I ain’t too happy about his butler, either.’
The address that Kelsey had given the detectives appeared at first sight to house several members of the medical profession. But Dr Jack Rylance’s name did not appear on any of the brass plates at the entrance.
Nevertheless, Hardcastle entered the building and rang the bell of the first door on the right.
A middle-aged woman in horn-rimmed spectacles, her grey hair fashioned into coils that covered her ears, known colloquially as ‘earphones’, opened the door and studied the two men.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘We’re police officers, madam,’ said Hardcastle, raising his hat. ‘I’m looking for a Doctor Jack Rylance.’
‘Well, this isn’t his practice,’ said the woman, in a tone that implied Hardcastle could not read.
‘No, I understand that, but the address we were given for Doctor Rylance was this house.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him, and I’ve been the receptionist here for twelve years.’ The woman’s attitude softened slightly. ‘I would ask the doctor but he has a patient with him at the moment.’
‘Do you, by any chance, have a copy of the Medical Register?’ asked Marriott.
‘Of course,’ said the woman in a rather superior manner. ‘Would you like to examine it?’
‘If we may,’ said Hardcastle, taking back the initiative from his sergeant.
‘Come in.’ The receptionist held open the door and, once the two detectives were in the reception room, she crossed to a bookcase and took down a heavy volume.
Hardcastle skimmed quickly through the pages and then looked up. ‘He ain’t there, Marriott.’
‘D’you know anything else about this doctor, apart from believing he practised at this address?’ asked the receptionist, becoming suddenly quite helpful. ‘He may only just have registered, you see, although this is the latest edition,’ she added, indicating the Medical Register.
‘As a matter of fact, I know very little about him,’ admitted Hardcastle, ‘but he told us he had been an army medical officer during the war.’
‘In that case, you might try the Royal Army Medical College at Millbank. He may still be practising as an army doctor.’
Although Hardcastle thought that to be unlikely, he thanked the receptionist and he and Marriott left.
‘I knew there was something not quite right about that fellow, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle as he looked up and down the street. Seeing a cab, he waved his umbrella.
‘Where to, guv’nor?’ asked the driver.
‘D’you know the Royal Army Medical College in Millbank?’
‘Course, I do, guv’nor. Here, you ain’t got that Spanish flu, have you? I wouldn’t want to catch any of that.’
‘The only thing you’re likely to catch is a dose of the Commissioner’s elbow,’ snapped Hardcastle as he and Marriott got in.
As the Commissioner of Police licenced London cabs, the driver knew exactly what that pithy comment meant. He said nothing, but vented his annoyance on the taximeter by savagely yanking it down.
The librarian at the Royal Army Medical College consulted several lists and ledgers.
‘The only Jack Rylance on the list, Inspector, was a Lieutenant Colonel Jack Rylance, a regular officer of the Royal Army Medical Corps, who was killed at Vlamertinge in 1917 when a shell hit a forward dressing station.’
‘You’re sure about that?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Positive,’ said the librarian. ‘If I may make a suggestion, you could try the War Office. It’s possible that there was a Jack Rylance associated with medical services. For example, the Army Service Corps provided ambulances and there were entire companies of them, usually commanded by a captain. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.’
‘You can’t help us if the fellow don’t exist,’ said Hardcastle, with unusual magnanimity.
‘Thank you for your assistance, ma’am,’ said Marriott.
‘I had hoped that our frequent visits to Colonel Frobisher might’ve come to an end when the Armistice was signed, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle as the cab deposited them at Horse Guards in Whitehall. He raised his bowler hat in acknowledgement of the mounted sentry’s salute as they passed into the archway, even though he was not entitled to the compliment.
‘I daresay Colonel Frobisher felt the same way, sir,’ ventured Marriott, and received a sharp sideways glance.
The dismounted sentry also saluted and Hardcastle again raised his hat before pushing open the door of the office of the Assistant Provost Marshal of London District that was in the archway itself.
‘Haven’t seen you in a while, Inspector.’ In the outer office, Sergeant Glover, the APM’s chief clerk, was seated behind a desk laden with files.
‘Is Colonel Frobisher in, Sergeant Glover?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Colonel Frobisher’s retired, Inspector. He’d actually served more than his pensionable time but like so many was kept on until the war was over. Left us last year, on December the thirty-first, to be precise.’
‘Who’s taken his place, then?’
‘Major Sinclair, a General List officer, Inspector.’
‘A major, Cyril?’ queried Marriott.
‘They decided we only needed a deputy assistant provost marshal in London District, now the fisticuffs with Fritz is over, Charlie. But knowing the army, they’ll have changed their minds again in a few months’ time. Anyway, Inspector, I take it you’d like a word with the major?’
‘Yes. We have an interesting query for him.’
‘In that case, it’ll probably be me who finishes up solving it, Inspector.’ Glover stood up. ‘I’ll show you in.’
‘George Sinclair, Inspector.’ The DAPM was a tall, slim man, possibly six foot two and about thirty years of age and with a moustache. He was immaculate in blue patrols, the plain form of undress uniform occasionally worn by soldiers in peacetime. ‘I’ve heard all about you from Ralph Frobisher. He told me that you’re always asking difficult questions.’ Sinclair laughed, shook hands and invited the two detectives to sit down. ‘What can I do to help?’
Hardcastle explained about the mystery of Jack Rylance and the result of those enquiries he had made so far.
‘The only other information we had, and that was from Rylance’s butler, was that he owned a Rolls-Royce. He was also said to own a cottage and a market garden in Lancing. We’ll be asking the police in Sussex to make enquiries to ascertain whether that is true. I’ll advise you of anything relevan
t we hear that might help.’
‘It certainly does seem something of an enigma, Inspector,’ said Sinclair thoughtfully after he had finished taking copious notes of Hardcastle’s problem. ‘And it’s a pretty big job you’re asking me to do for you. Is the man actually wanted by the police?’
‘He is suspected of murdering a young woman, Major.’ Hardcastle had already decided that Rylance was indeed a suspect or, at best, had a few questions to answer.
‘Is he, by Jove! I don’t suppose you have a description of the man, do you? That might help if more than one Jack Rylance served in the army.’
‘I do, as a matter of fact, because we interviewed him once. Read the major the note you made when we saw Rylance at Wilton Street, Marriott.’
‘Aged between twenty-five and thirty, he was about five-foot-eight-inches tall, with auburn hair and a trimmed moustache, Major,’ Marriott began, ‘and he was rather stooped when he walked, as though he’d spent all his life going through low doorways. It’s possible, I suppose, that it’s the result of a war wound, and as Mr Hardcastle told you, the butler said that Rylance had been wounded at the retreat from Mons and discharged from the army as unfit for further service. As far as his weight was concerned, I’d estimate that he was about ten stone and in pretty good shape. There were two particular features that I noticed: his ears don’t have lobes and he has a scar running along the jawline on the left-hand side of his face. About four inches long, I’d say.’
Sinclair wrote down the details and leaned back in his chair. ‘I must say that’s a very detailed description, Sergeant Marriott,’ he said, putting the cap on his fountain pen and dropping it casually on the desk.
‘We are professionals, Major,’ said Hardcastle rather pointedly.
Sinclair laughed, much to Marriott’s relief, and then surprised Hardcastle. ‘Would you care to join me in a drink, Inspector, and you too, Sergeant? To celebrate our future cooperation. Not that we policemen ever need an excuse for a drink, eh?’