Hardcastle's Soldiers

by Graham Ison

  ‘But where do we start, sir?’ asked Marriott, once Hardcastle had finished his diatribe about the army. He was still unsure that his DDI was steering the enquiries in the right direction. But he had known Hardcastle for long enough to know that he frequently went off at a tangent, and had solved many a murder as a result of having done so. ‘We can’t travel to the places where they were supposed to have been posted.’

  Hardcastle had no intention of leaving England. But instead of responding to Marriott’s statement, he said, ‘Have you got a telephone number for that chap we saw in Lichfield, Marriott? The adjutant, I think he called himself.’

  ‘Captain Murdoch, sir. Yes, we have.’

  ‘Good. Speak to him on the instrument and find out Mansfield’s home address.’ He put his pipe in the ashtray. ‘Let’s just hope his people don’t live in Cornwall or the Hebrides, or some equally wild sort of place.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott glanced at the telephone on the DDI’s desk and wondered why his DDI did not make the call himself. But then he recalled what Hardcastle had said about not barking yourself if you had dogs to do it for you.

  Nearly three-quarters of an hour had passed before Marriott was able to report back to the DDI.

  ‘Well?’ Hardcastle looked up expectantly.

  ‘Lieutenant Mansfield’s family lives in Twickenham, sir.’

  ‘At least that’s in the Metropolitan Police District,’ muttered Hardcastle.

  ‘His father, Major Oscar Mansfield, is an instructor at the Royal Military School of Music, and he and his wife live in officers’ quarters at the school.’

  ‘How do we get there?’ Hardcastle stood up, and seized his hat and umbrella.

  ‘Train from Waterloo, sir,’ said Marriott, prepared, as ever, for the question he knew the DDI would ask.

  ‘Good. And get someone to have a look in the records of births and marriages at Somerset House. See what he can find out about the Mansfields. Who’s available?’

  ‘There’s Catto, sir.’ Marriott could not understand why the DDI was taking so much interest in the Mansfield family. The photograph of her fiancé that Billie Harcourt had shown them proved conclusively that Lieutenant Geoffrey Mansfield was not the officer to whom they had spoken at Victoria Station.

  ‘Not Catto,’ said Hardcastle, who, unreasonably, had no great faith in the young detective. ‘Send a sergeant.’

  ‘There’s Bert Wood, sir.’

  ‘He’ll do.’

  Once Marriott had instructed DS Wood, he returned. ‘There’s a message from DI Collins, sir.’

  ‘Oh, and what does he have to say?’

  ‘He says that Mr Fitnam at Wandsworth got Captain McIntyre to take Stacey’s fingerprints, and that they match some of those found in the van.’

  ‘Well, what a surprise,’ said Hardcastle, and leading the way downstairs, strode out into Whitehall and hailed a taxi.

  The cacophonous sound of musical instruments being tuned greeted the two detectives as they arrived at Kneller Hall.

  The pompous custodian manning the main gate loftily enquired their business – to which he did not get an answer – and then directed them to Major Mansfield’s quarters.

  Hardcastle was surprised that a private soldier answered the door.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘You’re not Major Mansfield, are you?’ asked the DDI, thinking that he had been directed to the wrong house, despite the custodian’s air of efficiency.

  ‘I’m Major Mansfield’s batman, sir. Private Hobbs is my name.’

  ‘Good,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We’re police officers, and we’d like a word with Major Mansfield.’

  ‘It’s not about the lieutenant is it, sir?’ asked the soldier, a worried expression on his face. ‘He hasn’t been killed, has he?’

  ‘He’s quite safe, as far as I know,’ replied Hardcastle. ‘It’s an enquiry about another matter.’ The DDI did not intend to tell this man why he was there.

  ‘I think the major’s across in one of the band blocks, sir, but Mrs Mansfield’s here.’

  ‘Perhaps a word with her, then,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Won’t keep you a moment, gents.’ Leaving the detectives on the doorstep, the soldier retreated to another part of the house. He returned moments later. ‘If you come this way, sir, Mrs Mansfield’s in the parlour.’

  The woman who rose from a chintz-covered settee was in her late forties or early fifties. Her blonde hair was swept up in the prevailing fashion, and Hardcastle’s immediate impression was that she was – or had been – an actress.

  ‘I’m Carrie Mansfield,’ said the woman, a quizzical expression on her face. ‘Hobbs tells me you’re from the police.’

  ‘That’s correct, ma’am. Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, and this here is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’ The DDI indicated his sergeant with a wave of the hand.

  ‘Do sit down, both of you, and tell me how I can help you.’

  ‘Your son, Lieutenant Mansfield—’

  ‘But he’s all right, isn’t he?’ asked the officer’s mother. ‘Hobbs told me that you haven’t come about him.’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, your son is quite safe, ma’am, but I have come about him, in a manner of speaking. While he was on leave, Lieutenant Mansfield witnessed a man leaving a money-changing kiosk in Victoria Station where a man had been murdered.’

  Marriott was amazed at Hardcastle’s statement. Not sharing the DDI’s doubts about the army’s efficiency, or lack of it, he was satisfied that their enquiries had proved conclusively that Geoffrey Mansfield was not the man they were seeking. Added to which Billie Harcourt’s photograph of her fiancé confirmed that he was not the ‘witness’ they had spoken to at Victoria Station. But he knew that Hardcastle was capable of deviousness when it suited him, or more particularly, when it suited the enquiry that he was conducting.

  ‘Really? He never mentioned it.’

  ‘He stayed here for a while, did he, then?’

  ‘No, he was staying with his fiancée – a Miss Isabella Harcourt – at Westbourne Terrace in central London. But he brought Isabella to see us on the second day of his leave. A charming girl. She has a Spanish mother, you know.’

  ‘When did he come on leave, Mrs Mansfield?’ asked Hardcastle, casually glancing around the room, and, in particular, studying a series of framed photographs on top of a bookcase.

  Marriott could not understand why Hardcastle was persisting with this fiction, and did not visualize that anything the woman might say would be of any assistance in discovering who had murdered Herbert Somers, the Victoria Station cashier.

  ‘It must’ve been the end of June, I suppose, and he went back—’

  But the conversation was interrupted by a disturbance in the hall.

  ‘That’ll be my husband,’ said Carrie Mansfield.

  The door to the sitting room opened, and a portly man entered. He was wearing khaki uniform with a major’s crown insignia on the cuffs, not yet being one of those officers who wore his rank on his shoulder straps, known to the rank and file as ‘wind-up’ badges.

  ‘I’ll have to get a new lead trombonist, Carrie. The one I’ve got’s bloody hopeless, and—’ Major Oscar Mansfield paused as he caught sight of the two detectives. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, love. I didn’t know you’d got company. I didn’t want to disturb Hobbs, so I let myself in.’

  ‘These gentlemen are from the police, Oscar.’

  ‘It’s not about Geoff, is it?’ A brief look of concern crossed Mansfield’s face, as he unbuckled his Sam Browne belt and handed it to Hobbs, who had suddenly appeared in the doorway.

  ‘No, Major, it’s not,’ said Hardcastle, and introduced himself and Marriott. ‘I was just explaining to your wife about the murder I’m investigating.’ The DDI repeated what he had told Mrs Mansfield.

  ‘Sounds a bit of a rum do, Inspector.’ Major Mansfield rubbed his hands together and advanced on a side table upon which was a collection of bottles
and glasses. ‘Can I tempt you to a drink, Inspector?’

  ‘That’s very kind, sir,’ said Hardcastle. ‘A drop of Scotch wouldn’t go amiss.’

  Mansfield busied himself pouring drinks, and then turned to face the detectives. ‘I’m surprised young Geoff never laid hands on this chap. He’s pretty good at hand-to-hand fighting, so I’ve heard. And he was a useful rugby player. Got a Military Cross, you know. In Arras, that was. Anyway, what did you want to see him about? Need him at the trial, do you?’

  ‘That’ll be in the future,’ said Hardcastle, fervently hoping that there would indeed be a trial, but knowing full well that Lieutenant Mansfield would not be required to give evidence. ‘But right now I was wondering if he could add anything to what he told us at the time.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to nip across to Arras if you want to have another chat with him. But keep your head down,’ added Mansfield, with a chuckle.

  The DDI permitted himself a brief smile. ‘I doubt that Mrs Hardcastle would be too keen on that,’ he said, as he stood up. ‘But I daresay I can arrange for the military police to obtain a statement from him. Well, thank you both. I’ll not take up any more of your time.’ He added, as if it were an afterthought, ‘When did your son return to the Front from leave, Major?’

  ‘The tenth of July.’

  Hardcastle expressed surprise. ‘Oh, I’d heard that he was in England until the fourteenth. Never mind, I must’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘I hope you catch the bugger, whoever he is,’ said Oscar Mansfield, as he shook hands with Hardcastle.

  ‘Never fear, Major,’ said Hardcastle. ‘He’ll be taking the eight o’clock walk sooner rather than later.’

  After Hardcastle and Marriott had left, Major Mansfield looked at his wife. ‘That’s a damned queer business,’ he said. ‘I read about that murder, and it was on the eleventh of July, the day after Geoff went back off furlough. It strikes me the police don’t know what they’re doing.’

  TWELVE

  The two detectives were at Twickenham railway station before Hardcastle spoke.

  ‘That Oscar Mansfield seems a rough and ready sort of bloke for a major, Marriott.’

  ‘Commissioned bandmaster, sir. Worked his way up from the ranks. That’s how most of them become a director of music.’

  ‘You’re full of useless information, Marriott, but did you notice them pictures on the bookcase?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but what about them?’

  ‘See anyone you knew?’

  ‘I can’t say as I did, sir.’

  ‘Well, Marriott, there was a photograph of a young floozy in a wedding dress clutching hold of a young man.’

  ‘Yes, I did notice that, sir.’

  ‘Well, Marriott, a pound to a pinch that young man was Jack Utting. If he ain’t, then Kaiser Bill’s my uncle. And Utting was the bloke who took a day off on the day that Herbert Somers was topped. If you remember, Utting told the bank manager that he’d been knocked down by a bicycle, but he told us that he’d had a bilious attack. I think we need to have another word with Master Utting, Marriott.’

  ‘It looks as though the Chief Constable of Lichfield did make a mistake over the date of Mansfield’s return from leave, sir.’

  ‘Yes, it looks that way, Marriott, but then you know what I think about country coppers.’

  That afternoon, another avenue of enquiry was closed with a telephone call from Captain McIntyre, the military police officer at Aldershot.

  ‘I’ve had a word with Stacey, Inspector, and he cannot recall whether there were any officers in the pub the night he had his cap stolen. But I doubt there would’ve been. Officers tend to stay away from the pubs of Aldershot. Especially those patronized by the common soldiery.’ McIntyre emitted a short laugh. ‘They might get involved in a fight, and that would never do,’ he added.

  The revelation that Jack Utting could, in some way, be related to Geoffrey Mansfield caused Hardcastle to ponder what he was to do next.

  ‘If Utting is Mansfield’s brother-in-law, Marriott, it might begin to shed some light on this murder of ours.’

  ‘That’s assuming that the young woman in the photograph was Mansfield’s sister, sir.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true, but I can’t see why else they’d have that snap on their bookcase,’ mused Hardcastle. ‘Unless they’re in the habit of going about taking pictures of weddings. Anyone’s wedding. Is Wood back yet?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He’s in the office.’

  ‘Fetch him in, then, and we’ll see what he’s learned. If anything.’

  Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood entered Hardcastle’s office clutching a sheaf of paper.

  ‘Sit yourself down, Wood, and tell me what you’ve found out.’

  Wood took a seat, and spent a moment or two sorting through his papers before looking up.

  ‘Jack Utting, born the fifth of May 1892, was married to Nancy Utting, née Mansfield, on the sixth of January this year, sir. Nancy Mansfield was born on the twenty-first of February 1897, and is shown as an actress, and she’s the daughter of Oscar and Carrie Mansfield.’

  ‘Ha! You see, Marriott, I was right about that photograph,’ exclaimed Hardcastle, banging the top of his desk with the flat of his hand. ‘Seek and ye shall find, Marriott.’

  ‘Did you think there was a connection between the killer and Lieutenant Mansfield, then, sir?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Of course I did. There had to be.’ In truth, Hardcastle had not had the faintest inkling that the Mansfield family might be somehow associated with the murder. ‘Yes, go on, Wood,’ he said, turning to his other sergeant.

  ‘Jack Utting also has a sister, sir, name of Cora, but I couldn’t find any marriage for her. Mind you, she’s only eighteen. She was born on the twenty-third of June 1899.’

  ‘This is beginning to get interesting, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘What do we do now, sir?’

  ‘We go and see Utting again, and give him a bit of a firm talking to.’ Hardcastle glanced at Wood. ‘Well done, Wood. You might just have helped to solve our topping for us.’

  ‘Are you going to let Mr Fitnam know, sir,’ queried Marriott, once Wood had left the office.

  ‘All in good time, Marriott, all in good time. I don’t want to get his hopes up. You never know, but once we’ve shaken up Utting a bit, we might persuade him to confess.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott was by no means convinced that, simply because Utting was married to Geoffrey Mansfield’s sister, he had murdered Somers. He had to admit, though, that if Utting was not involved, it was a bizarre coincidence. But Marriott knew his DDI, and was bound to acknowledge that he was a master when it came to securing convictions for murder.

  Half an hour later, Superintendent Hudson entered the DDI’s office.

  Hardcastle immediately stood up. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Good morning, Ernie,’ said Hudson, taking a seat, and waving Hardcastle to do the same. ‘I’ve had a telephone call from the Chief Constable of Lichfield.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He told me that he was looking through the notes he made when he saw a Captain Murdoch at Lichfield Barracks on your behalf. Does that mean anything to you, Ernie?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He was asked to make enquiries about Lieutenant Mansfield, the officer of the North Staffordshire Regiment who claimed to have seen the murderer of Herbert Somers running away from the kiosk at Victoria Station. But he seemed to have made an error over the date of Mansfield’s return to the Front.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what he said. Apparently when he was going through his notes again, he found that he’d mistakenly told you that Mansfield had returned to the Front on the fourteenth of July when, in fact, he’d returned on the tenth.’

  ‘I’d already discovered that, sir. But I wonder why he telephoned you and not me.’

  Hudson laughed. ‘The chief constables of small forces are very rank-conscious, Ernie. Lichfield’s chief only rates as a superinte
ndent by the Met’s standards, so I suppose he preferred to speak to me.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me, sir,’ said Hardcastle, but refrained from expressing the opinion that he felt about the chief constable’s slipshod approach to enquiries. ‘I don’t suppose they have many murders to deal with up there.’

  The following morning, Hardcastle was in his office at eight o’clock, and sent for Marriott immediately. ‘The sooner we have that chat with Jack Utting the better, Marriott. And there’s no time like the present. Find out when he finishes his stint at the money-changing place at Victoria, will you? On the other hand, I suppose we could speak to him there. But it’s best to ask the manager at Cox and Company. What was his name?’

  Marriott grinned; Hardcastle was playing his usual game. ‘Mr Richards, sir.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the fellow. But don’t let on that we fancy Utting for the topping of Somers.’

  ‘Certainly not, sir.’ Marriott sighed inwardly. He had long since grown accustomed to Hardcastle telling him how to do his job, apart from which he thought that suspecting Utting of Somers’s murder was tenuous to say the least.

  But Hardcastle was in for a surprise when Marriott returned.

  ‘I spoke to Mr Richards, sir, and he told me that Utting had resigned from the bank.’

  ‘Resigned!’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘When?’

  ‘Last Friday, sir. It was all quite irregular apparently. Utting didn’t turn up for work on the Friday, but Mr Richards received a letter from him in that morning’s post tendering his resignation with immediate effect.’