Hardcastle's Runaway

by Graham Ison

  ‘Well, of course you can, Mr Catto. Oh, how deliciously exciting. Is it just you?’

  ‘Er, no, there are actually two of us. My colleague, Basil Keeler, is waiting outside.’

  ‘Oh!’ Esther Pritchard looked a little disappointed that she would not have the handsome Henry Catto to herself. ‘Do bring him in, Mr Catto.’

  ‘It would be a case of staying all night, Mrs Pritchard. Would you mind?’ Catto was shrewd enough to add his requests one by one, thereby lessening the chances of Mrs Pritchard changing her mind.

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Catto, it would be very comforting to know that there were two policemen in the house. Particularly now that my husband is away in Versailles. I shall have a lot to tell him when he gets home at the weekend.’

  ‘One other question, Mrs Pritchard. Are you connected to the telephone?’

  ‘Naturally.’ Esther Pritchard laughed gaily. ‘I think we all are in Wilton Street.’

  That pleased Catto, or more particularly Keeler, who would be the one who would otherwise have had to run all the way to the police station if Rylance returned. The Royal Automobile Club had recently started putting telephones in their roadside sentry boxes, but Catto did not know of one anywhere near Wilton Street.

  In the event, the observation did not last very long at all.

  At just after five o’clock that evening, Police Constable John Dawson was patrolling the streets of Lancing when he saw Rylance’s open-topped Rolls-Royce drive past him. It contained two men, each wearing a cloth cap and a muffler. The constable ran to the nearest public house and telephoned headquarters with the information before resuming his patrol. The headquarters of the West Sussex Constabulary relayed this information to Scotland Yard which, in turn, forwarded it to Cannon Row police station. The station officer, unaware of the urgency, placed the message in the CID tray in the front office and carried on drinking his tea.

  But well before this information found its way to DDI Hardcastle, Rylance’s Rolls-Royce drew to a standstill outside his house.

  Catto rushed downstairs and telephoned this momentous news to Sergeant Marriott, who then passed it immediately to Hardcastle.

  ‘I’ve told Catto that he and Keeler should remain inside Mrs Pritchard’s house until assistance arrives, sir. Rylance might be armed and we don’t want any heroics.’

  ‘Quite right, Marriott. I would have thought the West Sussex Constabulary might’ve spotted this distinctive motor car when it was on the move,’ said Hardcastle.

  When, much later, the DDI was to discover that the Sussex police had done so, and that the information was already in the CID tray of the front office, he sent for the station officer. The sergeant received a dressing down that he was unlikely ever to forget, especially when Hardcastle made mention of the officer’s suddenly declining prospects of promotion. As many of the CID officers on A Division could testify, the DDI could be extremely wounding when it came to pointing out a policeman’s shortcomings to that individual’s senior officer.

  That the constable at Lancing had also reported there was a market garden in the area owned by a Roland Kelsey convinced Hardcastle that Kelsey and Rylance had been engaged in what the law calls a joint enterprise in the matter of Lily Musgrave’s murder. But Hardcastle had yet to read that useful piece of information.

  TWENTY

  By seven o’clock, Hardcastle had mustered three or four constables from Cannon Row police station to take with him to Wilton Street. But as Wilton Street was within the boundaries of Gerald Road subdivision, a part of B Division, most of the uniformed element came from that station. The duty inspector from Gerald Road took charge of the whole uniformed contingent and was directed by Hardcastle to close Wilton Street at each end.

  Hardcastle and Marriott had drawn firearms before leaving the police station, and two of the Gerald Road men were also armed. Detective Constable Cecil Watkins had been instructed to borrow a briefcase and bring it with him, and was told to call at each of the houses opposite Rylance’s to warn the occupants to stay indoors and to keep away from the windows. The briefcase was a prop so that Rylance or Kelsey, if either of them looked out of the window, would think that Watkins was a door-to-door salesman.

  At twenty-five minutes to eight, Hardcastle and Marriott walked casually along Wilton Street and stopped at Rylance’s house. Telling Marriott to keep out of sight until Rylance or Kelsey had opened the door, Hardcastle was about to knock when his grand plan of gently persuading Rylance out of the house was brought to nought.

  Suddenly, there was the sound of a single gunshot. A matter of moments later the front door flew open and Rylance ran out into the middle of the street.

  ‘Stand to,’ he yelled. ‘Stand to, for Christ’s sake. Get those men to the parapet, Sergeant.’ He had had a revolver in his hand when he left his house but for no apparent reason threw the weapon down and started to run towards Upper Belgrave Street. All the time he was screaming hysterically about another attack. ‘The bloody Boche are everywhere. Wake up, you idle bastards. We’re under attack, dammit! Stand to. Fix your bayonets. They don’t like British cold steel.’

  ‘Get after him, Bodkin!’ shouted Hardcastle. ‘The rest of you stand still,’ he said to the remaining detectives.

  Liam Bodkin, one of the Rochester Row detectives, sprinted after Rylance, showing a nice turn of speed for a man his age.

  But, as quickly as he had started, Rylance stopped running. He turned and began casually to stroll back towards Hardcastle with his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Hello, Inspector. I was just coming to see you.’ Rylance stopped and gazed at his Rolls-Royce. ‘That’s a nice car,’ he said.

  ‘What did you want to see me about, Doctor Rylance?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘It’s Sergeant Kelsey, you see. This German came into the house and, well, I suppose Kelsey’s instinct took over and he shot him.’

  ‘Is the German dead, Doctor?’

  ‘Oh, yes, definitely. I know a dead man when I see one.’ Rylance carried on walking as though he had not a care in the world.

  ‘Yes, of course. You would, being a doctor.’

  ‘A doctor?’ Rylance stopped again and turned to face Hardcastle. ‘I’m not a doctor, Inspector. I’m Captain Jack Rylance of the Royal Engineers. We’re mining down there, just beyond the parados. Look,’ he said, pointing towards Grosvenor Place and Buckingham Palace beyond. ‘Just over there.’

  ‘Yes, I can see it now.’ Hardcastle continued to agree with everything that Rylance said. ‘And I must have made a mistake thinking you were a doctor. But why don’t we go somewhere quiet and discuss this business of the Germans, eh?’

  ‘Good idea, Inspector.’

  ‘Bodkin,’ said Hardcastle, ‘run to the end of the road and get a cab down here as quick as you can.’ He signalled to Catto. ‘Use Mrs Pritchard’s telephone, Catto, and call the station. I want the divisional surgeon to attend the station immediately. Tell the station officer it’s a matter of great urgency.’ Next, he turned to Marriott. ‘Take charge here, Marriott. Make sure that the firearm Rylance abandoned is sent to Inspector Franklin as soon as possible. Then get someone to see if Kelsey is dead or alive, because I think he was the one who was shot. If he is alive, get medical attention. Of course, it’s just possible that Rylance surprised a burglar. Or Kelsey did.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Marriott moved away to deal with the tasks Hardcastle had just ordered him to do. But inwardly he was seething with fury. As a first-class sergeant, he knew exactly what he had to do and did not need Hardcastle to tell him.

  At that point, a cab drove into Wilton Street from the direction of Grosvenor Place.

  Hardcastle opened the door. ‘After you, Captain Rylance.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. As a matter of interest, where are we going?’

  ‘I thought it might be as well to get out of the firing line for a while. A very capable captain has just taken over, along with the reinforcements.’ Despite frequently professi
ng ignorance of military matters, Hardcastle was an avid reader of the Daily Mail, from which he had acquired the basic facts of how the army was run.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Rylance and relaxed against the cushions. He remained silent for the whole of the short trip to Cannon Row police station.

  Despite the presence of a police officer whose four chevrons denoted that he was a station sergeant, Jack Rylance did not seem to realize that he was in a police station, even when Hardcastle escorted him into the barren charge room. Perhaps in his present imaginative state he believed himself to be at some sort of military HQ.

  The station officer appeared at the door between the front office and the charge room, a large book and a quantity of paper in his hand.

  ‘What have you got there, Higgins?’

  ‘A charge sheet and the Occurrence Book, sir.’

  ‘Well, you can take them away again.’

  ‘But if he’s not to be charged, sir, I must make an entry in the Occurrence Book to the effect that he has been detained at the station,’ responded the station sergeant officiously. ‘It’s in General Orders.’

  ‘I know it is, Higgins,’ snapped Hardcastle, ‘and as you are so familiar with General Orders, you may recall that when any officer of the rank of detective inspector or above brings a prisoner into the station, he, and he alone, will decide if and when a charge is to be laid. Or if there is to be an entry in the Occurrence Book or, for that matter, in any other damned book. Now take all that bloody stuff away before you send Captain Rylance into a rage.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Where’s the divisional surgeon, Higgins?’

  ‘In the matron’s office, sir.’

  ‘Ask him to meet me in here.’

  A few moments later Dr Lewis Carpenter strolled into the charge room. He was a bluff, portly, general practitioner with a moustache and was bald, save for a fringe of hair that ran around the back of his head from ear to ear. His surgery was within walking distance and he was always happy to attend the station at any hour of the day or night.

  ‘What have you got, Mr Hardcastle? The sergeant said it was urgent.’ Carpenter screwed a monocle into his left eye and peered at the prisoner.

  ‘It is, Doctor.’ Hardcastle drew Carpenter away from Rylance, who was now sitting quietly on one of the benches in the charge room, and explained at some length all that was known about the former sapper officer.

  Carpenter nodded. ‘Not the first case I’ve heard about, Mr Hardcastle. It’s this damnable war, you know. I’m pleased you didn’t put him in a cell. That could have triggered all manner of shocking memories and would possibly have turned him violent in an attempt to escape, even to the point of harming himself. What’s likely to happen to him?’

  ‘He’ll be charged with murder, of course, but his defence counsel will almost certainly cite the rules in M’Naghten’s case.’

  ‘I imagine so.’ Carpenter sat down on one of the benches and scribbled a few lines in a notebook. He looked up, a pensive expression on his face, and for a few moments idly tapped his teeth with his pencil. ‘I think the best idea would be to transfer him to Springfield Hospital at Wandsworth, Mr Hardcastle. They have the facilities for dealing with this sort of thing and they have adequate secure accommodation, should it be needed.’

  ‘Is that your professional recommendation, Doctor Carpenter?’

  ‘Certainly, and I’ll give you that in writing.’ Carpenter smiled. ‘I know how keen the Metropolitan Police is on having lots of pieces of paper.’

  ‘We’ll need to provide a guard until a decision is made about what’s to happen next.’

  ‘Yes, of course. They’re quite used to that sort of thing at the Springfield. Now, if you’d direct me to a telephone, I’ll arrange for an ambulance with some beefy attendants, Mr Hardcastle, just in case Rylance gets excited again. And, no doubt, you’ll want to send a couple of your men with him.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Marriott appeared in the doorway of the charge room.

  ‘What is it, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle, steering his sergeant into the front office and positioning himself so that he could keep an eye on Rylance through the window that separated the two rooms.

  ‘It’s all quiet in Wilton Street now, sir, and I’ve dismissed the men. We found Roland Kelsey sitting on the floor in the kitchen, which is at the back of the house on the ground floor of Rylance’s house. He’d been shot.’

  ‘Fatal?’

  ‘No, sir. It was a flesh wound in the right thigh but he’d lost quite a lot of blood. I had him conveyed to Charing Cross hospital and Catto and Watkins are with him. I told them to stay there until relieved.’

  ‘What for? Kelsey’s not under arrest, is he?’

  ‘I’m afraid he is, sir. He admitted assisting Rylance to dispose of Lily Musgrave’s body at Slade House but denied any part in the killing. So I arrested him for preventing the lawful burial of a body.’

  ‘Common Law misdemeanour,’ murmured Hardcastle, ‘but it’ll depend on the Attorney General. He might decide there is enough evidence to charge Kelsey with being an accessory after the fact. What was Kelsey doing at Slade House that weekend, anyway? It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘He introduced himself to the other members of staff as Rylance’s butler but told them his name was Randolph Harvey, sir. I think he just wanted to keep an eye on his officer.’

  ‘So he’s the missing Randolph Harvey. I wonder why the hell he used a different name, Marriott.’ Hardcastle shrugged. ‘Oh well, there’s no need to worry about it. Right now, we’ve got more important things to deal with.’

  The hearing at Bow Street police court the following day was brief. Hardcastle had asked to see the Chief Metropolitan Magistrate in chambers before the court convened. He explained about Jack Rylance, his war experiences, his stay at Craiglockhart hospital and the events leading up to his appearance today.

  ‘Very well, Mr Hardcastle. We’ll make it a very brief hearing.’

  Jack Rylance was the first to appear in the dock that Friday morning, much to the annoyance of the previous night’s haul of prostitutes who believed their profession gave them the right of being the first to appear. Rylance had been sedated by a resident psychiatrist at Springfield and, far from being overawed, appeared slightly amused by his surroundings.

  ‘You have an application, Inspector?’ asked the magistrate as Hardcastle stepped into the witness box.

  ‘I do, Your Worship. I ask for a remand in secure accommodation pending a decision by the Attorney General in this case.’

  ‘You have made the necessary arrangements, I take it.’

  ‘I have, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Remanded to secure accommodation for eight days, but dependent upon the Attorney’s decision.’

  It was Monday the twenty-first of July when Jack Rylance appeared in the famous Number One Court at the Old Bailey. He was ushered into the dock and peered around the court with the same amused expression as when he had appeared at Bow Street. His gaze took in the bewigged barristers in front of him and beyond them the impressively massive Palladian arch with its pair of twin columns, and its Royal Arms, all carved in oak. Beneath the Royal Arms was the Sword of Justice, and on each of the high-backed leather chairs were the armorial bearings of the City of London.

  The usher appeared and opened the proceedings with the customary proclamation: ‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All persons having business before this court of oyer and terminer and general gaol delivery pray draw near. Be upstanding.’

  The red-robed judge entered, exchanged bows with counsel and sat down.

  ‘The prisoner will stand,’ ordered the clerk of the court.

  The two warders took Rylance by the elbows and helped him into a standing position.

  ‘Are you Jack Rylance of Wilton Street, Westminster in the County of London?’ asked the clerk.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are charged in that on or about the sixth of April in the year of Our L
ord one thousand, nine hundred and nineteen, at Epsom in the County of Surrey, you did murder Lily Musgrave, against the Peace. How say you upon this indictment? Guilty or not guilty?’

  For a moment or two Jack Rylance appeared bemused by the proceedings, as though they involved someone else. Eventually, he said, ‘Oh, yes. Not guilty, My Lord.’

  ‘You may sit down,’ said the clerk of the court.

  The Attorney General stood up. ‘Gordon Hewart for the Crown, My Lord, assisted by my learned junior, Mr Joshua Stacey. My learned friend, Sir Harry Cork, appears for the defence with his learned junior, Mr John Watts.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Attorney.’

  ‘This is rather a sad case, My Lord,’ Hewart began, and outlined the circumstances of Lily Musgrave’s murder and the eventual arrest of Rylance. ‘Lily Musgrave led a raffish existence, My Lord, pursuing her own hedonistic wants, regardless of anyone else. On many occasions, she removed her clothing for the delectation of lascivious males of dubious character. Rylance mentioned, when questioned in one of his more lucid moments, My Lord, that Lily had accused him of being the father of her unborn child. Despite disbelieving her, he had shot the girl dead. In fact, Miss Musgrave was not pregnant. There appears to be no rational reason for his actions, nor has he offered one.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Attorney. Do you propose to call any witnesses for the prosecution?’

  ‘Only Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle, My Lord, who will outline the facts of the case, and two witnesses to prove the matter of the firearm.’

  In measured tones, Hardcastle gave evidence of finding the body at Epsom before outlining the circumstances surrounding Rylance’s behaviour immediately prior to his arrest.

  Then came the most telling piece of Hardcastle’s testimony. ‘After Captain Rylance was escorted to Cannon Row police station, My Lord, I interviewed him at some length. Although he did not dispute having shot a woman, he appeared unaware of Lily Musgrave’s identity, claiming that he did not know anyone of that name. He maintained throughout his period in custody that the woman he had shot was a German spy. He did not dispute having buried her, either, even though she was a German, he said. He stated that he had attended many battlefield burials and that he and a sergeant, who he refused to name, had assisted him.’