by Graham Ison
‘Very kind, Major,’ murmured Hardcastle, immediately forming a favourable view of the new provost officer.
Sinclair crossed to a wall cabinet and took out a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label and three glasses. ‘I take it you don’t want water?’ he enquired, implying that the very idea was anathema.
For the next half an hour, Sinclair regaled the two detectives with stories about the last three months that he had spent as town major of Bonn, a small community some twenty or so miles outside Cologne.
‘He seems quite a decent fellow,’ said Hardcastle as he and Marriott walked back up Whitehall towards Cannon Row police station. ‘In all the years we knew Colonel Frobisher, he never offered us a drink.’
NINETEEN
Following their lunch at the Red Lion, Hardcastle and Marriott returned to the police station. For some twenty minutes, the DDI sat at his desk in deep thought before standing up and crossing the corridor to the detectives’ office.
‘Catto!’ he barked.
‘Sir.’ Catto leaped to his feet, knocking over his chair as he did so, and wondering, as ever, what he had done wrong.
‘When you went to Wilton Street to bring Rylance back here, who answered the door?’ asked Hardcastle, waving down the other occupants of the office who had stood up at the arrival of the DDI.
‘The butler, sir. Man by the name of Kelsey.’
‘What time of day was that?’
‘Ten thirty in the morning, sir.’
‘What clothes was he wearing, Catto?’
‘Clothes, sir?’
‘For God’s sake, Catto,’ snapped Hardcastle, ‘it’s a perfectly straightforward question. They’re the things people put on before they go out. It saves them from being arrested for an outrage on public decency.’
‘Ah, yes, sir. I see, sir.’ Catto was immediately seized by a paroxysm of nerves, a condition always brought on by being in the DDI’s presence. ‘He was wearing plus-fours, a Paisley-patterned pullover and socks, sir. And a spotted tie and white shirt. He looked as though he’d been playing golf, sir.’
‘Well done, Catto,’ said Hardcastle. ‘A good description.’
‘Yes, sir. I mean, thank you, sir.’ Catto gulped. It was the first compliment he had ever received from the DDI and he was stunned but at once suspicious that Hardcastle might have an ulterior reason for the blandishment.
‘As a reward, Catto,’ continued Hardcastle jocularly, ‘you can go round to Wilton Street and arrest Kelsey on suspicion of conspiracy to murder.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And take Lipton with you.’
‘D’you think Kelsey’s really involved, sir?’ queried Marriott, once he and Hardcastle were back in the DDI’s office.
‘Kelsey’s done nothing but prevaricate, Marriott. He tipped off Rylance to expect us and then he gave us a false address for Rylance’s consulting rooms. And, apart from anything else, plus-fours is a damned funny get-up for a butler to be wearing when he answers the door at half-past ten in the morning. No, Marriott, I don’t think Kelsey’s a butler at all. There’s something rum going on here.’
‘D’you think he might have gone to Lancing, sir?’
‘Lancing, Marriott? Why should he have gone to Lancing?’
‘It’s where Kelsey said that Rylance had a cottage and a market garden.’
‘Oh, yes, of course he did. But after wasting our time in Harley Street I don’t propose going there, Marriott, unless I know that Rylance does own a market garden there.’
‘I’ll send a telegraph message to West Sussex Constabulary, sir.’
‘I was going to suggest that, Marriott. Are you sure that West Sussex Constabulary is the right force? I mean Lancing might come under a borough force. Some of these county constabularies can be very confusing at times.’
‘I’ve made enquiries, sir, and I can assure you that Lancing is definitely part of West Sussex Constabulary, not a borough force. Its headquarters are at Horsham.’
‘Why are Lancing’s headquarters at Horsham?’ Hardcastle managed to conjure up an expression of bewilderment.
‘They’re not, sir,’ said Marriott patiently, convinced that Hardcastle was being deliberately obtuse. ‘The Force HQ is at Horsham. Lancing is part of Steyning Division.’
‘And where are their headquarters?’
‘Steyning, sir.’
‘Oh, get on with it.’ Hardcastle began to fill his pipe.
Two hours after Hardcastle had sent Catto and Lipton to arrest Roland Kelsey, Catto reported back to the DDI. Suddenly more confident than ever before, he tapped on the DDI’s door and stepped into his office.
‘The bird appears to have flown, sir.’
‘What are you talking about Catto? What bird?’
‘Kelsey, sir. He wasn’t there. We made enquiries of the neighbours and one of them, a Mrs Pritchard who lives opposite, said that about an hour ago a Rolls-Royce drew up driven by Doctor Rylance. The neighbour knows him by sight although she’s never spoken to him. She went on to say that another man – she thought it was Rylance’s butler – came out and got into the car. He was carrying a small suitcase. The car then drove away. I asked this neighbour if she’d ever seen a cook but she said she didn’t think there was one.’
‘Why on earth should you have asked about the cook, Catto? You haven’t had a touch of the sun, have you?’
‘Sergeant Marriott said that when you and he first interviewed Kelsey, he told you he was married to the cook, sir.’
‘So he did, Catto, so he did. Quite slipped me mind for the moment. Very well. Carry on.’
When the message was received at the headquarters of the West Sussex Constabulary, it was passed immediately to the chief constable who had issued an order that any communication from the Metropolitan Police should be shown to him first.
The chief constable initialled the message and directed his clerk to send a copy to the divisional headquarters at Steyning.
The superintendent in charge of the Steyning division initialled the message and directed that a copy be sent to the constable stationed at Lancing.
Police Constable John Dawson had been a member of the West Sussex Constabulary for almost twenty-eight years, and for the last seven of them had been stationed at Lancing. He was, therefore, thoroughly familiar with his bailiwick, and had no need to leave his police house in order to answer the questions posed by Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Metropolitan Police.
Within minutes of receiving the message from Steyning, he replied to the effect that no market garden in Lancing or in the surrounding area was owned by anyone called Dr Jack Rylance. Neither did any man of the same name appear on the roll of electors for the area. Police Constable Dawson suggested that if the registration number of Dr Rylance’s Rolls-Royce could be provided, a look-out would be kept for the vehicle.
The message was seen by the superintendent at Steyning, who forwarded it to the chief constable. Once the chief constable had approved the contents, he sent for an inspector and instructed him to forward the information, such as it was, to DDI Hardcastle in London.
Twenty-four hours after the request for information had been sent to the West Sussex Constabulary, Marriott handed the reply to Hardcastle.
‘The bugger’s run, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Yes, sir. I’ll send Lipton across to Spring Gardens to see if the county council can find the number of Rylance’s Rolls-Royce in the vehicle register.’
‘Unless Kelsey was lying about him owning one, Marriott.’
‘Well, sir, as one of Rylance’s neighbours claimed to have seen him driving a Rolls-Royce this morning, I think that piece of information might be true.’
‘It’d make a bloody change, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle gloomily.
It appeared that the neighbour was being truthful. Lipton came back with the information that a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost was registered with the county council under the name of Dr Jack Rylance with an address in Wilton
Street, Westminster.
‘These are the details of when it was first registered and the number of the vehicle, sir.’ Lipton proffered a piece of paper.
‘Give it to Sergeant Marriott and ask him to pass those details to the police at Lancing, Lipton.’
On Thursday, the first of May, Sergeant Glover telephoned Marriott to say that the name of Jack Rylance had been found in army records.
‘Don’t tell me that we’re getting somewhere at last, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, and promptly seized his bowler hat and umbrella. It was a Hardcastle foible that he would not wear his overcoat after the last day of April, whatever the prevailing weather. ‘Well, come on, Marriott. We haven’t got all day.’
The DDI rapidly descended the stairs and he and Marriott strode up Whitehall towards Horse Guards.
‘Good morning, Inspector,’ said Glover once the detectives were in the provost office once again.
‘I understand that Major Sinclair has some information for me.’
‘It’s not Major Sinclair, Inspector. Not any more. It’s Lieutenant Colonel James Corrigan, Welsh Guards.’
‘I know Colonel Corrigan,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but what happened to the major, Sergeant Glover?’
‘I really don’t know, Inspector, other than to say his departure was rather sudden. I’ll take you in to the colonel.’
Corrigan, immaculate in khaki service dress, was standing behind his desk when Hardcastle and Marriott were shown into his office.
‘We meet again, Mr Hardcastle.’ Corrigan shook hands with the DDI and with Marriott. ‘Sutton’s Farm, I think. Number 78 Squadron Royal Air Force at Hornchurch, nearly a year ago, if memory serves me correctly. Please sit down.’
‘Congratulations on your promotion, Colonel,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Major Sinclair moved on quickly, but Sergeant Glover did suggest that this was really a lieutenant colonel’s post.’
Corrigan glanced at the door leading to the outer office and, noting that it was firmly shut, leaned forward. ‘As a matter of fact, Inspector, Major Sinclair had a misfortune. The Provost Marshal decided to pay an unannounced visit and found Major Sinclair rather the worse for drink. Sinclair wisely decided to resign his commission rather than face a court martial for conduct unbecoming. Not the done thing for a provost officer to be caught half-seas over, so to speak. However, to get down to the business in hand, I have the personal details of Jack Rylance here.’
‘I hope it’s our man, Colonel.’
‘I’m sure it is. From reading the details that Major Sinclair left here, it would be too much of a coincidence for it to be anyone else.’ Corrigan donned a pair of half-moon spectacles and opened the file. ‘Captain Jack Rylance, an officer in the Royal Engineers,’ he began, ‘was heavily involved in tunnelling under the Messines-Wytschaete Ridge in 1916 and won a Military Cross. But that was before the accident.’
‘What sort of accident, Colonel?’
‘There was a fall in one of the tunnels – the tunnel where Rylance and his party were working. Rylance was cut off from the rest of his chaps and trapped, alone in this small, stifling chamber with only thirty thousand pounds of ammonal and a quantity of blasting gelignite to keep him company.’
‘Ye Gods!’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘It don’t bear thinking about, Colonel.’
‘I imagine that Rylance thought his time was up.’ Corrigan glanced up from the file. ‘Soldiers during the war were concerned not so much with dying,’ he said, ‘but with the manner of their dying. Or worse, the thought of becoming a helpless, blinded cripple. But, unbeknown to Rylance,’ he continued, ‘help was at hand in the shape of his sergeant. This chap ordered a couple of “kickers” to grab their shovels and they began tunnelling through the obstruction, determined to get Rylance out. It took thirty hours but eventually the sergeant and his men managed to break through to Rylance. Regrettably, by the time Rylance was found, his nerve had gone completely.’
‘I think mine would have done too,’ commented Marriott.
‘One report,’ continued Corrigan, fingering a folio, ‘describes him as a gibbering wreck.’ He closed the file and looked at Hardcastle. ‘I think I would have gone mad in the circumstances, Inspector. Anyway, Rylance was repatriated to Craiglockhart War Hospital that had just been set up in Edinburgh for dealing with the effects of damage to the nervous system brought on by war. He was there for a year’s psychiatric treatment before he was invalided out of the army. They did what they could for him, but reading between the lines of this report, I don’t think he’ll ever be right again.’
‘But how can you be sure that this is the Jack Rylance we’re seeking, Colonel?’ asked Marriott. ‘Was there any mention of a scar on the left side of his chin or the fact that his ears had no lobes?’
‘No, Sergeant Marriott, there was not, but I have to admit that the army is not as good as you chaps when it comes to including descriptions. And it’s possible that the scar was the result of an injury that occurred after his discharge from the army.’
‘There must’ve been more than one Jack Rylance in the army during the war.’ Marriott continued to press the matter. ‘And our Rylance claimed he was in the Royal Army Medical Corps and was invalided out after being wounded during the retreat from Mons. With respect, Colonel, the officer you’re talking about could be another Rylance.’
Corrigan frowned and looked back at his file. ‘There was one other thing that might help,’ he said. ‘The name of the NCO who saved Rylance’s life was Sergeant Roland Kelsey and he received the Distinguished Conduct Medal for his bravery. Does that help in any way?’
‘Help, Colonel?’ said Hardcastle and laughed. ‘It confirms that you’ve identified our Jack Rylance.’
‘One question, Colonel,’ said Marriott. ‘It’s not really relevant to this matter, but you mentioned “kickers” just now. Why were they called that?’
‘“Kickers” was the name they gave to the sappers, usually miners in civilian life and often from Durham, who would lie on their backs and kick their shovels ahead of them to make tunnels of very small diameter. Hence the name. They were paid seven shillings a day, as against the infantryman’s shilling a day. Mind you, they earned every penny.’
‘All we’ve got to do now is find Rylance,’ said Hardcastle as he and Marriott left Horse Guards and walked back up Whitehall to the police station.
‘Might I suggest an observation in Wilton Street, sir?’
‘What for?’ Hardcastle stopped and turned to face his sergeant. A pedestrian behind Hardcastle cannoned into him, swore and crossed the broad highway that houses the offices of government.
‘I don’t think he’s abandoned that house for good, sir. Surely he’s got to come back at some time.’
‘It might work, I suppose.’ The DDI was always reluctant to accept a suggestion from a subordinate. ‘Find out who we’ve got available.’
‘Keeler, Lipton, Catto and Wilmot, sir,’ said Marriott promptly.
‘What about Wood?’
‘DS Wood has got a job running at Inner London Sessions, sir.’ As ever, Marriott knew the duties of all the sergeants and constables under his command.
‘Very well, organize it. And it’ll be no good unless it’s round the clock. I daresay they’ll have to make an arrangement with a neighbour. From what I remember of Wilton Street, anyone trying to keep observation there would stick out like a sore thumb.’ Hardcastle carried on walking but then stopped once more. ‘Speak to the West Sussex Constabulary again, Marriott.’
‘They’ve already told us that no one called Rylance owns a cottage or a market garden there, sir.’
‘Quite right, Marriott, but in view of what we’ve just heard from Colonel Corrigan, it crossed my mind that if there is any property in Lancing associated with Rylance, it might be registered in Kelsey’s name. It’s possible that Kelsey’s so loyal to Rylance that he’d even help him commit murder. Or at least cover it up.’
Marriott selected Catto and Keeler for the first spell of ob
servation duty, mainly because Catto had already made the acquaintance of some of Rylance’s neighbours. But neither officer was happy at being assigned to a duty that could turn out to be interminable.
‘The woman who said she’d seen Rylance drive off in his Rolls-Royce, Catto,’ began Marriott. ‘Whereabouts in Wilton Street did she live?’
‘Immediately opposite, Sergeant.’
‘Have a word with her and see if she’d be prepared to let you keep a lookout from her upstairs window.’
‘I’ll speak to the lady first, Basil,’ said Catto. ‘We don’t want to intimidate her. You wait out here until she agrees. If she doesn’t, we’ll have to find someone else.’ He knocked on the door of the house opposite the Rylance residence.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Pritchard.’
‘Hello, Mr Catto. Do you need my help again?’ Esther Pritchard was a rather attractive buxom lady of about forty. She was also a great talker, and on Catto’s first visit she had spoken of the numerous friends she had and how they often visited each other’s houses for tea. She also mentioned that her husband was a member of the Diplomatic Service.
‘It’s rather an imposition, Mrs Pritchard,’ said Catto as he followed the woman into her drawing room, ‘but it would be very helpful if you could see your way clear to allowing us to keep observation on Doctor Rylance’s house for a while.’
‘My goodness!’ Esther Pritchard put a hand to her mouth. ‘Has Doctor Rylance done something terrible? You hear such awful things these days. It must be something to do with the war. And just because he’s a doctor doesn’t mean he can’t commit a crime, does it? After all, there was that Doctor Crippen who murdered his wife less than ten years ago and ran away with his mistress.’
‘We certainly want to question him with regard to the death of a young girl, Mrs Pritchard,’ said Catto once she had stopped talking. ‘It doesn’t mean that he committed a crime,’ he added cautiously, ‘and he might prove to be merely a witness, or even turn out to be no help at all.’ He did not believe Rylance to be innocent any more than Hardcastle did, but it did not do to broadcast what the police knew. ‘However, we are hoping he’ll be coming back soon.’