by Graham Ison
‘Excuse me, sir.’ DC Henry Catto hovered in the doorway of Hardcastle’s office.
‘Yes, what is it, lad?’
‘Mr Fitnam from V Division telephoned with a request for you to speak to him.’
‘What does he want?’ Hardcastle settled behind his desk and filled his pipe.
‘He didn’t say, sir, but he did say it was important.’
‘Yes, all right, Catto.’ Hardcastle knew that when Arthur Fitnam, the DDI of V Division said it was important, then it was. ‘Looks like we’re off again, Marriott.’ The DDI sighed, stood up and walked down to the front office of the police station.
‘All correct, sir,’ said the station officer, an elderly station-sergeant.
‘Can you get me Mr Fitnam at V Division on that thing?’ asked Hardcastle, gesturing at the telephone.
‘Certainly, sir.’ The station officer, clearly more adept at using the telephone than was Hardcastle, quickly made the connection. After a short delay, DDI Fitnam came on the line.
‘Arthur, it’s Ernest Hardcastle on A. I’m told you’ve got something important to tell me.’ For a few minutes, Hardcastle listened intently to what his V Division opposite number had to say. When their conversation had finished, the DDI replaced the receiver on its little hook and turned to the constable on station duty. ‘Run up to my office, lad, and tell Sergeant Marriott we’re going to Wandsworth.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said the PC.
‘And while you’re about it,’ added Hardcastle, ‘ask him to bring down my titfer and gamp.’
A few moments later, Marriott appeared with the DDI’s hat and umbrella. ‘Something on, sir?’ he asked.
‘Mr Fitnam’s got a murder on his hands that he thinks might be of interest to us, Marriott.’
‘I’m sorry to drag you all the way down here, Ernie, but I think there’s a tie-up between your murder and the one I’ve got going here. I saw the brief details of your topping in this morning’s Police Gazette.’
Hardcastle laughed. ‘I always enjoy a trip to the country, Arthur, you should know that. But what about this murder of yours?’ It was one of the DDI’s little jokes that A Division was at the centre of things, whereas V Division, in his jocular view, was almost bucolic. It was not the case, of course, as Hardcastle would be the first to acknowledge. The Wandsworth Division had more than its fair share of villainy.
‘It took place in Kingston upon Thames during the night of Wednesday the eleventh. That’s the same day as your murder at Victoria. A patrolling PC found the dead body of a young woman lying in the centre of Cambridge Road. At first it looked as though she had been run over, which turned out to be true, but on closer examination it was obvious that she’d been stabbed as well.’
‘How does that have anything to do with my killing, Arthur?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘A baker’s van was found abandoned in Kingston Road, which is what Cambridge Road becomes when you get nearer Malden,’ continued Fitnam, ignoring Hardcastle’s question. ‘It took a few days, and we only got the results this morning, but it was apparent from the damage that it was the van that had hit the young woman, and there was blood on the front bumper. More to the point, though, a bloodstained knife was found in the van that almost certainly was the murder weapon. As far as we can work out, the van driver must’ve picked up this woman at some stage, and, for some reason, stabbed her. Despite that, it looks as though she made her escape from the vehicle, but was then deliberately run down by the driver. After he’d knocked her over in Cambridge Road, he must’ve driven on for about half a mile, and then abandoned the vehicle.’
‘I still don’t see what this has to do with my enquiry,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Ah, but just wait, Ernie. We later discovered that the van was stolen from a bakery in Cowleaze Road, Kingston. And that is what made me think of you.’
‘I wasn’t a baker, but I do like a decent slice of farmhouse,’ said Hardcastle, tiring of the way in which Fitnam was spinning out his yarn. He made a point of taking out his watch and glancing at it.
‘The lock-up where the van was kept wasn’t broken into, Ernie. The padlock was undone with a key, and the doors locked again after the van was taken. And guess who used to work there as a baker’s roundsman before he was conscripted for the army.’
‘Indulge me,’ said Hardcastle, taking out his pipe and filling it. He was growing weary of Fitnam’s lengthy dissertation.
‘A lad called Edward Stacey who, the baker told me, is now in the Army Service Corps at Aldershot. And the same Edward Stacey was mentioned in your entry in the Police Gazette in connection with your Victoria Station topping. So it’s just a case of going down to Aldershot and nicking him.’ Fitnam leaned back with a look of triumph on his face. ‘There, what d’you think of that, eh?’
A smile spread slowly across Hardcastle’s face, and he shot a sideways glance at Marriott, who was also smiling. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Arthur, but Stacey was in the custody of the military police all that night from six o’clock in the evening. At my request.’ It had, of course, been Colonel Frobisher who had ordered Stacey’s arrest, but Hardcastle saw no point in complicating the story. ‘So the entry in Police Gazette was out of date by the time you read it. The lad Stacey has been rowed out of my enquiry.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ exclaimed Fitnam, and leaned back in his chair. ‘Trust you to bugger up my investigation, Ernie.’
‘Nevertheless, it interests me, Arthur,’ said Hardcastle, and went on to explain about the missing cap, tunic and trousers.
‘It looks as though someone’s got it in for young Stacey, then,’ said Fitnam thoughtfully. ‘I wonder who he’s upset.’
‘Who was the woman, sir?’ asked Marriott. ‘Has she been identified?’
‘Yes, skipper, she was a local tom called Ivy Huggins,’ said Fitnam. ‘She was well known to police, and had been arrested quite a few times. Her usual haunt was the Richmond Road, so I reckon that’s where she was picked up. Incidentally, Cowleaze Road – where the bakery is – is a turning off Richmond Road.’
‘I wonder how the killer got hold of Stacey’s keys,’ mused Hardcastle, ‘unless it was someone else who’d worked there. Or even the baker himself.’
‘Thanks, Ernie,’ said Fitnam sourly. ‘What I thought was an easy job to solve has now become very complicated.’
‘Be so good as to keep me informed, Arthur,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott rose to leave.
‘I don’t know what I’ll have to inform you about, Ernie,’ said Fitnam mournfully.
As usual, Hardcastle arrived at the police station at exactly eight thirty. Following his customary practice, he examined the crime book, noting that DC Carter had arrested a pickpocket on Trafalgar Square the previous evening. Climbing the stairs to the first floor, he put his head round the door of the detectives’ office. ‘Marriott, a moment of your time.’
‘Yes, sir. Good morning, sir.’ Marriott put on his jacket and followed the DDI into his office.
Hardcastle sat down behind his desk, and spent a few silent moments scraping out the bowl of his pipe. He opened a drawer and took out a chicken feather that he then drew through the stem of the pipe. Noticing Marriott’s puzzled expression, he said, ‘Can’t get proper pipe cleaners these days, but fortunately my neighbour keeps chickens. Apparently the wire they used to make pipe cleaners has been diverted to the munitions factories to make shells to pound the enemy with. Talking of which, did you see the report in yesterday’s linen drapers about Fritz using mustard gas at somewhere near Wipers?’
‘Yes, I did, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘They reckon that two thousand men were affected, and eighty-seven died. I just hope my brother-in-law’s not among them.’
‘Using gas ain’t playing the game in my book.’ The DDI spoke as though the war were a cricket match. ‘There was also a bit in the Daily Mail about the King changing the Royal Family’s name from Saxe-Coburg to Windsor. Seems a funny business.’
&nb
sp; ‘Apparently the King thought Saxe-Coburg sounded too German, sir,’ said Marriott.
‘Well, the Royal Family are Germans, aren’t they?’ said Hardcastle, in a tone that suggested the whole exercise had been pointless. ‘Anyway, sit down, m’boy. Smoke if you want.’
‘Thank you, guv’nor.’ Recognizing that Hardcastle was about to indulge in one of his little chats about the Somers case, Marriott adopted the less formal mode of address. He took out a packet of Gold Flake cigarettes and lit one, dropping the dead match into Hardcastle’s ashtray.
‘Those things won’t do you any good, m’boy,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You ought to consider taking up a pipe.’ It was something that Hardcastle said every time he saw his sergeant smoking a cigarette.
‘Yes, I’ve thought about it,’ said Marriott. ‘I just can’t seem to get the hang of it.’ Which is what he always said in reply.
‘Something a bit funny is going on down at Aldershot, m’boy,’ mused Hardcastle, having at last got his pipe alight satisfactorily. ‘You know how to use that telephone thing in the front office, don’t you?’ It was one of the DDI’s little foibles that he pretended ignorance of the telephone and its workings. In fact he was thoroughly conversant with it, and even had one on his desk, but often said that he didn’t keep dogs to bark himself. ‘Nip downstairs and give Captain McIntyre a call. Ask him to have a word with young Stacey, and see if he ever lost any keys.’
When Marriott returned, he said, ‘He’ll let us know as soon as possible, guv’nor.’
‘You didn’t say anything about Mr Fitman’s murder of a prostitute at Kingston, I hope.’
Marriott grinned. ‘No, sir. It doesn’t do to tell these military policemen too much.’
‘True,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Before we know where we are, he’ll be trying to solve it for us. And there’s nothing worse than having these amateur coppers interfering in a murder. Mind you, it could be worse; at least we haven’t got MI5 poking their noses in.’ The DDI still resented the interference of MI5 when he was trying to solve a murder last year, and he still blamed them for attempting to draw him away from the real killer.
‘It strikes me, sir, that someone at Buller Barracks purloined the cap, tunic and trousers for the purpose of carrying out the robbery and murder at Victoria. The puzzle is why did he then go on to murder a tom.’
‘If it was the same man, Marriott.’
‘Bit of a coincidence if it wasn’t, sir.’
‘Yes,’ said Hardcastle thoughtfully, ‘and I don’t like coincidences. But it’s no coincidence that Ivy Huggins plied her trade in Richmond Road within spitting distance of the bakery where Stacey worked before the army grabbed him.’ He placed his pipe in the ashtray, and rubbed his hands together. ‘On second thoughts, Marriott, we’ll go back to the barracks and make a few enquiries of our own.’
‘D’you want me to let Captain McIntyre know, sir?’
‘No, I don’t, Marriott. I think we’ll make our own way. I reckon that RSM Punchard is about the only bloke down there who knows what’s going on.’
SIX
Observing Hardcastle’s immaculate appearance, bowler hat and tightly rolled umbrella, the cab driver at Aldershot Station leaped from his taxi, and opened the door.
‘Buller Barracks guardroom, cabbie,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Off to the Front to give old Fritz a thrashing, sir?’ asked the driver.
‘No,’ said Hardcastle, ‘I’ve come to sort out the British Army.’
‘Blimey!’ exclaimed the driver, thinking that he must have a general in his cab.
The guardroom at Buller Barracks appeared to have been built along the lines of an Indian bungalow, complete with a veranda. A smartly dressed sergeant stood in front of the door at the top of a short flight of steps, a brassard on his right arm bearing the letters ‘RP’. A cross-strap from his right shoulder to his left hip supported the weight of the revolver on his belt. Sighting Hardcastle alighting from his cab, the sergeant snapped to attention and saluted.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked.
‘I’d like a word with RSM Punchard,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Very good, sir. Who shall I say it is?’
‘Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Metropolitan Police.’
‘Ah, right, guv’nor,’ said the regimental police sergeant, relaxing now that he knew Hardcastle was not an army officer. ‘Shan’t keep you a tick,’ he added, and went into the guardroom. Shortly afterwards a soldier came out and doubled across to the headquarters block. ‘I’ve sent a runner for him, gents. Doubtless, Mr Punchard will be with you directly.’
Five minutes later, the ramrod figure of the regimental sergeant-major came marching towards the two civil police officers.
‘Good day to you, Mr Hardcastle, and what can I do for you?’ Punchard noticed that the regimental provost sergeant was listening. ‘You can stop earwigging, Sarn’t Webster. Get about your duties a bit jildi. And if you mention to anyone that I’ve had a visit from the civil police, I’ll have them tapes off your arm quicker than you can ask the way to Wipers.’
‘Sir!’ yelled the abashed Webster, and retreated to the inside of the guardroom.
‘I take it you don’t want your visit here advertised, Mr Hardcastle?’
‘It would be better if it wasn’t,’ said Hardcastle.
Punchard glanced at his watch. ‘Thirty minutes after twelve pip emma,’ he said. ‘Whatever your business, Mr Hardcastle, I daresay you could stand a wet in the sergeants’ mess before we get down to brass tacks.’
‘Splendid idea,’ said Hardcastle, even more impressed by the RSM’s appreciation of priorities than he had been the first time he met him.
‘I presume the colonel don’t know you’re here.’ Punchard had quickly surmised that Hardcastle’s unannounced arrival at the guardroom, in the absence of Captain McIntyre, meant that few people knew he was there.
‘I certainly didn’t tell him I was coming,’ said Hardcastle, ‘nor Captain McIntyre, but I thought that if I wanted any information, you were the man to talk to.’
RSM Punchard preened himself slightly. ‘There’s nothing as how goes on in these here barracks that I don’t know about, Mr Hardcastle,’ he said, ‘and that’s a fact.’ And with that pithy comment, he took his pace stick from under his arm, and set off at a brisk pace, followed by the DDI and Marriott.
Halfway to the mess, Punchard spotted a figure some hundred yards away. ‘That man there!’ he roared, pointing with his pace stick.
The figure stopped, and came to attention.
‘You’re ambling about like a constipated clergyman. Get into quick time when you’re moving about the barracks.’
Without further interruption, the RSM and the two policemen arrived at the sergeants’ mess.
Leaving his cap, pace stick and Sam Browne in the entrance hall, Punchard waited while Hardcastle and Marriott deposited their hats and umbrellas there. He marched into the anteroom and invited the two detectives to take seats at ‘my table’ near the bar. Hardcastle noticed that there was a small card on the table that read ‘RSM’.
‘Well, now, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Punchard, once the steward had served each of them with a pint of beer. ‘What can I do for you?’
Hardcastle summarized what he knew, so far, of the death of Herbert Somers. He went on to tell the RSM of his theory about the murderer being someone at the barracks who had stolen the items of clothing for the purpose of committing the murders.
‘I hope I can speak to you in confidence, Mr Punchard,’ continued the DDI.
‘Your secret’s safe with me, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Punchard as he drained his pint of beer.
Hardcastle turned to Marriott. ‘Tell Mr Punchard about the murder at Kingston, Marriott.’
Marriott told the RSM about the stolen van, taken from a lock-up garage, and that Stacey had previously worked at the bakery from which it had been taken. He also added what was known about the murder of the prostitute Ivy H
uggins.
Punchard beckoned to the steward and ordered three more pints of beer before answering. ‘A pretty kettle of fish, Mr Hardcastle, and that’s a fact. But Stacey couldn’t have done it, as I’m sure you know.’
‘I’ve sent a message to Captain McIntyre asking him to find out if Stacey had lost any keys, as it was his keys that were used to open the garage where the van was kept. But it’ll probably be a few days before I get an answer.’
Punchard chuckled. ‘Very likely, Mr Hardcastle. But I can get the answer sweated out of the little bastard in seconds. Officers tend to pussyfoot about, if you take my meaning.’ He turned in his seat and crooked a finger at a young lance-sergeant.
The sergeant was at the RSM’s side in an instant. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Double across to the guardroom and ask—’ Punchard paused. ‘As you were. The man I want has just come in.’
At that moment, Sergeant Webster, the regimental police sergeant, had entered the anteroom, presumably intent on having a pint before going in for lunch.
‘Sarn’t Webster.’
‘Sir?’ Webster hurried to the RSM’s table.
‘You’ll have to delay your lunch and your pint for a minute or two, Sarn’t Webster. Go and find Stacey in B Company’s lines or the cookhouse, and ask him if he’s lost any keys lately. Well, since he was conscripted. He’s a leery little sod, so don’t take any old fanny from him.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Sergeant Webster looked mildly affronted at the RSM’s implication that he would have difficulty in extracting information from recruits. Apart from which, he was irritated at having been deprived of his beer, albeit briefly, and that would spur him on to getting an answer quickly.
‘And not a word to anyone else about it. It’s confidential police business. And don’t tell him or anyone else that the civil police are here making enquiries. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Webster, and hurried away.
Punchard turned to the two detectives. ‘I daresay you could do damage to some lunch, Mr Hardcastle, and you too, Sergeant Marriott.’