Hardcastle's Soldiers

by Graham Ison

  ‘It’s the most extraordinary thing, Inspector. I’ve been waiting here to meet my fiancée. The ticket collector wouldn’t allow me go on to the platform without a platform ticket, and I was about to—’

  ‘You weren’t on the troop train that just came in, then?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Mansfield glanced at his watch. ‘I think her train must be running late. However, I was standing quite close to here when I saw a soldier come out of the bureau de change there.’ He pointed at the booth wherein the cashier now lay dead. ‘He saw me but didn’t salute, so I challenged him. Discipline seems to have gone all to Hades since this damned war started.’

  ‘What happened next, sir?’ asked Marriott, fearful that Hardcastle might lose his temper with the young army officer’s vacillation.

  ‘I thought the fellow must’ve been up to no good. After all, he came out of the door at the side of the booth. If he’d been exchanging his francs for pounds, he’d’ve done what we all do and queue up at the hatch there.’ Mansfield pointed, and gave a brief, nervous laugh. ‘Well, not the officers, of course. We go straight to the front of the queue.’

  ‘Would you get to the point, Mr Mansfield,’ said Hardcastle, his mood rapidly turning to one of impatience.

  ‘I chased after him, and shouted to a couple of military policemen to stop him, but I doubt they heard me. As he was escaping, he dropped his headgear.’ Mansfield handed Hardcastle the army cap he was carrying. ‘I picked it up and was about to give chase again, when this troop train unloaded. Well, Inspector, you can see how many men are milling about. Quite frankly, I lost sight of him. One moment I had the chap in my sights, the next minute the place was flooded with the common soldiery, eh what?’

  ‘Did you hear a shot, by any chance?’ Hardcastle was satisfied that the cashier had been murdered with the butt-end of the revolver that had been found, but he wondered if it had been discharged prior to the murder, perhaps by accident, or with the intention of frightening the man who now lay dead in the booth.

  ‘A shot? Definitely not, Inspector, and believe me, I know what a shot sounds like. There’s a lot of it going on in Arras.’

  ‘I suppose you would,’ said Hardcastle, glancing at the ribbon of the Military Cross on Mansfield’s tunic. ‘What time was this?’

  The officer glanced again at his watch. ‘Ten twelve ack emma, Inspector. Forty-five minutes ago.’

  Grunting a response, Hardcastle turned his attention to the cap. Inside, in heavy black ink, were written the name Stacey and a regimental number. ‘What regiment is this, Lieutenant?’ he asked, pointing at the brass badge.

  ‘The Army Service Corps, Inspector,’ replied Mansfield promptly.

  ‘Well, as we’ve got his name and number here, he shouldn’t be too difficult to trace.’ Hardcastle turned to his sergeant. ‘Marriott, find somewhere quiet and take a statement from this officer. Then he can go.’ As Marriott drew Lieutenant Mansfield away from the crush, the DDI next addressed himself to the railway policeman. ‘How did you get to hear of this, lad?’ The policeman was not much younger than Hardcastle, but the DDI always called constables ‘lad’.

  ‘There was a bit of a to-do at the kiosk, sir. The swaddies waiting there was complaining something cruel that they wasn’t getting served. And the hatch was shut. Most unusual, that.’ The railway constable paused thoughtfully. ‘I suppose the murderer must have shut it,’ he suggested. ‘Anyhow, these swaddies was in a nasty mood, sir, and I apprehended there might be a breach of the peace. So, I pushed open the door to see what the hold-up was, and found the cashier lying on the floor. Then this officer come up to me and told me about some swaddy he’d seen running away. That’s when I sent another officer to call the Metropolitan copper off the traffic point outside.’

  ‘Wasn’t the door locked?’

  ‘No, sir. I always thought it was s’posed to be, but perhaps the murderer busted it open. There was one other thing, sir …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That army officer, sir. It wasn’t quite right what he told you. I was walking towards the booth when I almost bumped into him.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that he wasn’t running after anyone?’ Hardcastle was aware that witnesses’ statements often conflicted, and attached no great importance to what the policeman had said.

  ‘Didn’t seem to be, sir, but I might’ve got it wrong.’

  Having gauged the efficiency of the railway policeman, Hardcastle thought that that was quite likely. ‘My sergeant here will take a statement from you later on,’ he said, not at all happy with the constable’s knowledge of what had occurred. There was, however, some truth in what the PC had said earlier about the entrance to the booth. The DDI’s brief examination of the door to the kiosk indicated that the flimsy lock had been forced, and the jamb splintered, probably by bodily pressure. He turned away, and then paused. ‘And did you ask if any of the soldiers saw anyone running away?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I enquired, but they never saw nothing.’

  ‘There’s a surprise,’ grunted Hardcastle.

  Two military policemen arrived at the kiosk and approached Hardcastle.

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’ asked the senior of the two, a corporal, having been told who Hardcastle was by the railway policeman.

  ‘Apart from the cashier having been murdered, yes,’ said Hardcastle sarcastically. ‘But now you’re here, you can stand guard on this place until someone arrives to take possession of the cash. Is it an army arrangement?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know, sir,’ said the corporal. ‘But it does turn up here every morning with a military escort.’

  ‘That officer over there,’ began Hardcastle, indicating Lieutenant Mansfield who was sitting on a bench next to Marriott, ‘says that he shouted to you to apprehend a running soldier. Is that correct?’

  ‘Didn’t hear nothing, sir,’ said the corporal.

  ‘Don’t surprise me,’ muttered Hardcastle, turning away. But any further criticism of the military was curtailed by the arrival of Dr Bernard Spilsbury. A tall, impressive, tail-coated figure, he wore a top hat and carried a silver-topped cane with which he was tapping soldiers aside as he made his way purposefully towards the little knot of police officers.

  ‘Good morning, Hardcastle.’

  ‘Good morning, Dr Spilsbury,’ responded Hardcastle, and raised his bowler hat.

  ‘Where’s the cadaver?’ Spilsbury always referred to a dead body as a cadaver.

  ‘In the hut here, doctor.’ Hardcastle led the pathologist into the small kiosk.

  Spilsbury put down the small Gladstone bag he was carrying and rubbed his hands together as if in anticipation of something interesting. Kneeling down, he examined the wound on the back of the dead man’s head, and then glanced at the revolver, still lying on the floor a few inches away.

  ‘I’m in little doubt that it was the revolver that did the deed, Hardcastle, but not used conventionally.’ Spilsbury gave a brief laugh. ‘Bludgeoned on the back of the skull with the butt of the thing, powerfully enough to fracture it severely.’ The doctor stood up. ‘No point in taking temperatures. I gather that you know the time of death, give or take a few minutes.’

  ‘Indeed, doctor. About an hour ago.’

  ‘Splendid. Be so good as to have the cadaver taken to St Mary’s Hospital at Paddington, Hardcastle, there’s a good chap. I’ll conduct the post-mortem this evening at six o’clock sharp, but I’m sure that my original diagnosis of the cause of death will stand.’ And with that, Spilsbury picked up his Gladstone bag, waved a cheery goodbye and departed.

  ‘This cashier, lad,’ said Hardcastle to the railway policeman who had returned after making his statement. ‘Is he a military fellow, d’you know? Those army policemen don’t seem to know.’

  ‘No, sir. He’s a teller from Cox and Company’s bank in Albemarle Street. The cash comes here every day in a van with an army escort, and he meets them here. Then, every night, he checks the money and sends it back to th
e bank, again under escort.’

  ‘I’m glad to see someone knows what’s going on,’ said Hardcastle, offering a rare word of praise.

  ‘Not much goes on here that we don’t know about, sir,’ said the railway policeman, preening himself.

  ‘Except escaping murderers it seems,’ said Hardcastle, crushingly redressing the balance.

  ‘The van’s here to remove the body, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘And I’ve taken a statement from Lieutenant Mansfield.’

  ‘Yes, all right, Marriott.’ Hardcastle pulled out his watch and glanced at it. ‘We’ll take a stroll up to Horse Guards, and have a word with Colonel Frobisher. He should be able to tell us where this man Stacey is. Then it’ll simply be a case of arresting him.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Should have it all done and dusted by tonight, Marriott.’

  TWO

  The taxi set down the two detectives in Horse Guards Road, and they swiftly crossed the parade ground to Horse Guards Arch.

  ‘Funny to think of General Wellington sitting in that office up there, sir,’ said Marriott, pointing at the window beneath the clock.

  ‘Funnier still to think of a general becoming prime minister,’ commented Hardcastle, displaying, yet again, his knowledge of history. ‘I’d have thought he’d have had more sense.’

  The dismounted sentry in the archway raised his sword in salute at the sight of the bowler-hatted Hardcastle. It was not the first time that the DDI had been mistaken for an army officer; nevertheless he solemnly doffed his hat in acknowledgment of the compliment.

  Lieutenant Colonel Ralph Frobisher of the Sherwood Foresters was the assistant provost marshal of London District, and was Hardcastle’s point of contact in all matters military. Attired in khaki service dress, he wore a red armlet with the letters APM in black.

  The APM looked up warily as Hardcastle and Marriott were shown into his office. ‘I take it this is not a social call, Inspector,’ he said, smiling. The arrival of the DDI usually succeeded in presenting Frobisher with a problem.

  ‘Indeed not, Colonel. It’s a case of murder that took place some two hours ago at Victoria Station, but with your assistance I reckon I can clear it up before nightfall.’

  ‘Take a seat and tell me how I can help you,’ said Frobisher, moving a writing pad into the centre of his desk.

  As briefly as possible, Hardcastle outlined the circumstances surrounding the death of the cashier who had now been identified as Herbert Somers.

  ‘The army officer I mentioned – a Lieutenant Geoffrey Mansfield of the North Staffordshire Regiment – seized this cap.’ Hardcastle handed over the runaway soldier’s headgear.

  Frobisher examined the cap, and wrote down the name and number that were inscribed inside it. ‘You’ll be wanting me to tell you where this man is stationed, I suppose, Inspector.’ He looked up with a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘That’d be a start, Colonel.’

  ‘It might take some time,’ said Frobisher. ‘The Army Service Corps is one of the largest corps in the British Army, and to make matters worse this man could be from a unit anywhere in the world. France, Belgium, India, Malta, Gibraltar and Egypt to name but a few. I don’t suppose this Lieutenant Mansfield happened to notice whether this soldier had any campaign ribbons on his tunic.’

  ‘I didn’t think to ask, Colonel. Although I doubt it. The man was running away at the time. Is it significant, though?’

  ‘It might tell us whether he’d just returned from the Front. On the other hand if he had no medals, he might be in training. Leave it with me, Inspector, and I’ll get back to you as quickly as I can.’

  ‘There was a service revolver lying near the body, Colonel.’ Hardcastle produced the slip of paper on which DC Lipton had recorded the serial number.

  ‘D’you know for certain that it’s a service revolver, Inspector?’

  ‘It’s a Webley Mark Six and is engraved with the broad arrow along with the letters WD. DS Marriott here tells me that stands for War Department,’ said Hardcastle, indicating his sergeant with a wave of his hand.

  Frobisher nodded. ‘Yes, a good weapon, introduced in 1915, Inspector, but you say the cashier wasn’t shot.’

  ‘No, Colonel, he was bludgeoned to death with the butt. I was wondering if it was possible to trace where it came from.’

  ‘Virtually impossible, Mr Hardcastle. That particular weapon has been issued in its thousands. All I can tell you is that they are normally only issued to officers, NCOs and trumpeters of cavalry regiments, and some artillery drivers. I think I can say, without fear of contradiction, that your man Stacey of the ASC would not have been issued with one. Not unless he’s a horse transport driver. However, I’ll do what I can. But I must warn you that I’m unlikely to be able to help. Weapons are abandoned on the battlefield, and rarely traced. In fact, most are lost or buried.’

  Once their business with Colonel Frobisher had been completed, Hardcastle and Marriott took a taxi to Cox and Company’s bank in Albemarle Street, a turning off Piccadilly.

  The manager, a white-haired man of about sixty, who introduced himself as Leonard Richards, had already been advised by the Vine Street police – at Hardcastle’s behest – of the death of Herbert Somers.

  ‘A terrible tragedy, Inspector,’ said Richards, once Hardcastle and Marriott were ensconced in the manager’s office. ‘Is there any indication as to who was responsible?’ He sat down at his desk, adjusted his spectacles and smoothed his hand over his hair.

  ‘These are early days, Mr Richards,’ said Hardcastle, unwilling to divulge what the police knew about the escaping soldier seen by Lieutenant Mansfield. After all, the man Stacey might have had nothing to do with the murder of Herbert Somers, but Hardcastle thought that extremely unlikely. ‘But we’ll bring him to book, never fear.’

  ‘That’s very comforting, Inspector.’

  ‘What interests me at the moment, Mr Richards, is whether there is any money missing? I’m working on the basis that your teller was murdered in the course of a robbery. There were a few bank notes of different denominations left scattered about on the floor of the kiosk.’

  ‘I’ve already had the bank’s accountant conduct an audit of Mr Somers’ books, Inspector, and the monies that were returned. It seems that some three hundred pounds are missing.’

  ‘I take it that the missing money was sterling, sir,’ said Marriott, looking up from his pocketbook.

  ‘Yes, it was. Mostly five-pound notes, and possibly one or two one-pound and ten-shilling notes, I should think. The French francs appear all to be accounted for.’

  ‘I see.’ Marriott made a note and glanced up again. ‘I don’t suppose you have the serial numbers of those notes, sir, do you?’

  Richards smiled at the question. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have the time for that, Sergeant Marriott. We’re already short-staffed, thanks to the war, and more men are going off to join up almost every day.’

  ‘I thought that might be the case, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘Might we have Mr Somers’ address? We’ll need to have a word with his family.’

  ‘Yes, certainly,’ said Richards, and he scribbled the details on a slip of paper. ‘The tragedy is made worse by the fact that Somers shouldn’t have been there at all.’

  ‘Oh?’ Hardcastle, who always gathered snippets like that, looked up sharply. His suspicious mind immediately wondered why.

  ‘No, Somers doesn’t usually do the services’ bureau de change. It’s normally a teller called Utting, Jack Utting, but he called in sick yesterday evening. Apparently he was knocked over by a lad on a bicycle that afternoon. Not badly hurt, just a bit bruised it seems, but he didn’t feel up to coming in to work today.’

  ‘How very interesting.’ Hardcastle made a mental note of that piece of information, his active detective’s mind immediately wondering whether there had been an accomplice to the robbery and whether his name was Jack Utting. And if so, had he played any direct part in the unfortunate death of Herbert Somers? ‘D’you happen
to have this Mr Utting’s address?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Richards scribbled a Pimlico address on the slip of paper bearing Somers’ address and handed it to Hardcastle. ‘Having a house in Pimlico makes it much more convenient for Utting to get to Victoria than it did for poor Somers who lived in Lewisham.’

  ‘Would the cashier usually report here first, Mr Richards? Before setting off for Victoria Station, I mean.’ Hardcastle knew what the railway policeman had told him, but he always checked.

  ‘No, he would normally go straight to Victoria Station. Then he’d wait until the military escort arrived with the cash. The army comes here every day to collect the money, you see. Except for those days when we’re advised that no troop trains were expected. And the hours of work tend to change too, dependent on what the army tells us. Some troop trains arrive early in the morning; others late at night.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hardcastle thoughtfully. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Richards.’

  It was nearing four o’clock the same afternoon by the time that Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at Honor Oak Park railway station in south-east London. It was but a short walk from there to the Somers’ terraced house in Tatnell Road, Lewisham.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ The woman who answered the door was probably about forty years old. She looked harassed, and flicked a lock of greying hair away from her face.

  ‘We’re police officers, madam,’ said Hardcastle, raising his hat. ‘Mrs Somers, is it?’

  ‘No, I’m Mrs Perkins, Mrs Somers’ neighbour,’ said the woman, opening the door wide to admit the two detectives. ‘Mrs Somers has had terrible news, and I came in to do what I could. She’s got two small children, you know. They’re next door, playing with my three. I don’t know how we’re going to break it to them.’

  ‘We know about the murder of Mrs Somers’ husband, madam, that’s why we’re here,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott stepped over the threshold.

  There was no pressing reason why Hardcastle should have visited Herbert Somers’ widow; the local police had called earlier to advise her of her husband’s brutal murder. But Hardcastle was a tenacious detective and would explore every avenue in his hunt for a killer, even though he realized that he was unlikely to find the answer to the cashier’s death in this well-kept house.