Hardcastle's Soldiers

by Graham Ison

  ‘Well, if that don’t beat cockfighting. That’ll be guilty knowledge, Marriott. You mark my words. Did you see this letter? What did it say? He’s involved, Marriott, he’s involved. I can feel it.’ Hardcastle emitted the string of short sentences like the staccato firing of a machine gun. He stood up and began to pace around his office, puffing furiously at his pipe.

  ‘Mr Richards got his secretary to make a copy of it, sir,’ said Marriott, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket.

  ‘Well, read it then. Read it.’

  ‘It was brief, sir. Utting said: “I’m sorry to have to submit my resignation as from today, but my wife doesn’t want me to work at such a dangerous job any more. Not after the murder of Mr Somers.” And that’s it, sir.’

  ‘Dangerous? What’s so bloody dangerous about being a bank clerk, eh, Marriott? What did Richards have to say about it all?’

  ‘He was extremely annoyed, sir. He said that he’d be unable to give Utting a reference, because the bank’s policy required a month’s notice. He also mentioned that Utting’s departure would involve him in a lot of unnecessary work.’

  ‘Oh dear, it must be hard being a bank manager, worse than being in the trenches,’ said Hardcastle sarcastically. ‘No doubt he’ll have to write a report for head office. Here we are investigating a murder, and he’s carping about a bit of paperwork.’

  ‘What do we do now, sir?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘We go and see the young bugger, Marriott, that’s what we do. And we find out why he really left the bank.’

  It was precisely ten o’clock when Hardcastle rapped loudly on the door of the Utting residence at Gloucester Street, Pimlico. There was no answer. He knocked again, louder this time.

  ‘I’ve got a nasty feeling about this, Marriott.’ Hardcastle walked on to the garden at the front of the house, and peered through the windows of the parlour. The room was devoid of furniture.

  ‘The little bastard’s done a flit, Marriott.’ Hardcastle sounded exasperated.

  ‘Look’s like it, sir.’

  ‘He’s up to something, Marriott, you mark my words,’ said Hardcastle, not for the first time.

  The DDI turned from the window and saw a constable patrolling his beat on the opposite pavement.

  ‘Here, lad, come over here a minute.’

  The PC strolled across the road, irritated at being summoned peremptorily by someone he thought was a somewhat impertinent member of the public. ‘And what are you all in a lather about, mister?’

  ‘I’m DDI Hardcastle of A, lad, and I don’t get in a lather, as you call it, about anything.’

  ‘Oh, I’m very sorry, sir. I didn’t recognize you,’ said the now contrite PC, and saluted. ‘All correct, sir.’

  ‘Well, you might think so, lad, but I’ve got news for you. It looks as though the residents of this here house have done a moonlight flit.’ Hardcastle pointed at Utting’s house. ‘What d’you know about the people who lived here?’

  ‘Not very much at all, I’m afraid, sir. To the best of my knowledge the occupants have never come to the notice of police.’

  ‘Well, they have now,’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘D’you know who owns this property?’

  ‘It’s one of the big insurance companies, sir. They own most of this street, if not all of it. It’s the Mutual Life with offices in Baker Street.’ The PC took out a small pad and scribbled down the address. ‘There you are, sir,’ he said, tearing off the slip of paper and handing it to the DDI.

  ‘When you get back to the nick, ask the station officer to speak to the men who were on this beat from Thursday last. I want to know if any of them saw a furniture van being loaded outside number five. If any of ’em have, I want to hear about it tout de suite. Tell the station officer to pass any results to the DDI at Chelsea, and I’ll speak to him later.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The PC saluted once more.

  Hardcastle waved his umbrella at a passing taxi. ‘Baker Street, cabbie,’ he said. ‘The Mutual Life Insurance Company’s offices. It’s not far from where Sherlock Holmes lived,’ he added impishly.

  The young clerk manning the counter in the front office of the insurance company looked up. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked, running a finger around the inside of his celluloid collar. It sounded as though he was speaking through his nose.

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and I want to know about a Jack Utting who occupies one of your houses in Gloucester Street. Number five it is.’

  ‘I don’t know as how I can release that information,’ said the clerk. ‘Anything to do with our clients is confidential.’

  ‘Then you’d better get hold of someone who can tell me about it,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘I’m investigating a murder and I don’t have time to waste on pettifogging rules and regulations.’

  ‘One moment, sir. I’ll fetch the manager.’

  ‘Good idea, and be quick about it,’ said Hardcastle to the clerk’s departing back. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

  The man who appeared from a back office was about fifty, and was attired in the traditional black jacket and striped trousers of his calling.

  ‘My clerk tells me you’re from the police.’

  ‘Yes, I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, and I’m investigating a murder. I have reason to believe that a Jack Utting, resident at number five Gloucester Street might be able to assist me. However, when my sergeant and me visited the said premises, they was empty.’

  The manager, who introduced himself as Nathaniel Green, raised his eyebrows. ‘Empty? Are you sure, Inspector?’

  ‘Well, there’s no furniture in the front parlour. I had a look through the windows, and the cupboard’s bare, so to speak.’

  ‘This all sounds most irregular.’ Green shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I shan’t keep you a moment, Inspector.’ With that he turned on his heel, and made his way to a filing cabinet at the far end of the office.

  ‘It strikes me, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, ‘that Master Utting’s doing a lot of irregular things just lately.’

  The manager returned with a Manila folder in his hand. ‘Mr Utting’s paid up until the end of last month,’ he said, ‘but he still owes us for the period from the first of July.’ He calculated mentally. ‘That amounts to something in the region of three weeks’ rent. We took up references from his employer and his previous landlady, and he seemed a perfectly acceptable tenant. He’d always paid his rent promptly until now. He works for a bank which is quite an acceptable profession from our point of view.’

  ‘Not any more, he doesn’t,’ said Hardcastle, relishing the manager’s discomfort. ‘He packed it in last Friday.’

  ‘Did he, indeed? He should have informed of us of any change of employment. It’s in the agreement.’

  ‘And I suppose he should’ve told you he was moving,’ said Hardcastle. ‘That’ll be in the agreement, too, I imagine.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d be so good as to give us Utting’s previous address, Mr Green,’ said Marriott.

  ‘With pleasure.’ Green flicked open the folder. ‘He was resident at number seventeen Great Peter Street until the beginning of this year. That’s when he moved into our Gloucester Street house.’

  ‘That’ll be when he got married, Marriott.’ Hardcastle returned his attention to the manager. ‘Thank you for your assistance, Mr Green. For some reason, your clerk didn’t seem very happy at parting with that information.’

  The manager lowered his voice. ‘To be honest, Inspector, I’ll be glad to see the back of him. I keep hoping he’ll be called up for the army, but he tells me that he’s got asthma and has trouble with his adenoids. That’s why they won’t take him.’

  ‘If the war keeps going like it is, Mr Green,’ said Hardcastle, ‘they’ll get to the point when they’ll take anyone.’ And he only just stopped himself from saying ‘including you’.

  ‘The trouble is,’ continued the manager, ‘that we’re short-staffed
as it is. If I sack him, I’ll have difficulty in getting a replacement.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to take a female, but the board of directors won’t like it.’

  The woman who answered the door of number seventeen Great Peter Street had a frown on her face.

  ‘Yes, what is it? If you’re selling something, I don’t want it.’ She began to close the door.

  But Hardcastle put a foot against it. ‘We’re police officers, madam,’ he said, raising his hat.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We’re making enquiries about a former tenant of yours, a Mr Jack Utting.’

  ‘Oh, don’t talk to me about him!’ exclaimed the woman, and then contradicted herself by saying, ‘You’d better come in.’

  The front room of the house was furnished with several armchairs and a settee. The empty fire grate was filled with a newspaper folded into a fan shape, just like the one in the Somers’ house, and the mantelshelf was cluttered with small ornaments.

  ‘What d’you want to know about Jack Utting, then?’ demanded the woman. She remained standing, her arms folded across her ample bosom.

  ‘I take it you’re the owner of these premises,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘That I am. Mrs Freda Tolley’s my name. Me husband went down with HMS Hampshire, the one old Kitchener was on, and left me with a load of debts. And the pension’s nothing to write home about, I can tell you that.’ She was clearly none too distressed at the demise of her husband. ‘And this is a respectable house. Never had no trouble with tenants, leastways not until that Jack Utting turned up.’

  ‘D’you mind if we sit down?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Mrs Tolley, with a toss of her head, ‘but the furniture ain’t much to write home about. They’re for the paying guests, and they don’t pay enough to get the chairs done up proper.’

  Hardcastle glanced at the settee, but seeing that its springs were almost through the upholstery, decided to remain standing.

  ‘What was this trouble with Utting, then, Mrs Tolley?’

  ‘It wasn’t so much him as that floozy he eventually married. Well, I say married; the fact is they had to get wed. Put her in the family way, see. Or someone did.’

  ‘D’you know her name?’

  ‘Nancy Mansfield,’ said Mrs Tolley promptly. ‘At least she was until he made an honest woman of her. She reckoned she was actress.’ The landlady sniffed contemptuously. ‘She was full of airs and graces, was that one.’

  ‘You say she was the trouble, rather than Mr Utting. What did you mean by that?’

  Mrs Tolley tossed her head again. ‘A scarlet woman if ever I saw one. She’d never think nothing of bringing home some theatrical Johnny and spending the afternoon in bed with him. When her husband was at work, like. Mind you, I don’t think he gave a fig what she got up to. No better than a whore, I can tell you that. In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you’d told me she made her living as a strumpet. She certainly looks the part.’

  ‘Really?’ Hardcastle made a mental note to have the prostitutes’ register checked.

  ‘Why didn’t you throw them out, then, Mrs Tolley?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘What, and have empty rooms on me hands. It ain’t easy to get tenants, you know, what with the war an’ all. Them rooms what he left is still empty,’ she added. She seemed to make a habit of contradicting herself.

  ‘I understand that he left here in January, Mrs Tolley,’ said Marriott, busily making notes.

  ‘Straight after the wedding, such as it was. Glad to see the back of him, and that’s the God’s honest truth.’

  ‘Not a very splendid affair, this wedding of theirs, then,’ said Hardcastle, making the enquiry sound like casual conversation.

  ‘No, it wasn’t. They trotted off to the local registry office, and got spliced there. Not surprising, mind. I doubt they’d have got a preacher to tie the knot for ’em. Not with her nigh on six months gone, an’ all.’ Mrs Tolley primped at her hair. ‘And to cap it all, he left owing a week’s rent.’ She paused as a thought occurred to her. ‘Here, you don’t know where he’s gone, do you?’

  ‘Unfortunately no, madam,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But we hope to catch up with him fairly soon.’

  ‘Well, when you do catch up with him, perhaps you’d get hold of his last week’s rent for me.’

  ‘We’re police officers, madam, not rent collectors,’ said Hardcastle curtly, ‘and we’re investigating a murder.’

  ‘That don’t surprise me,’ said Mrs Tolley, with a knowing nod. ‘I always knew as how he’d come to no good. I always thought to meself that that Utting’d fetch up on the scaffold, and his whore of a wife with her throat cut.’

  ‘I’m not for one moment suggesting that he committed the murder, Mrs Tolley, but he may be able to assist us.’ Hardcastle sensed that it would be extremely unwise to trust this woman with his suspicions. If Utting did happen to return, Mrs Tolley would be falling over herself to tell him that he was wanted by the police. Not that Hardcastle’s disclaimer would have done much to allay her suspicions. She was obviously the sort of woman who, having made up her mind about something, would not change it.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if he had murdered someone. Probably that tart of a wife of his if he’s got any sense.’

  ‘I understand you gave a reference to the Mutual Life Insurance Company, Mrs Tolley,’ said Marriott.

  ‘Well, of course I did. If he hadn’t got that place, he’d likely have wanted to stay on here with their wretched kid. And I’d had enough of him, and that’s a fact. I’d rather do without the money than have to put up with him and his cow of a wife.’

  ‘Thank you for your assistance, Mrs Tolley,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott made for the front door.

  The two detectives walked down Great Peter Street, Hardcastle’s eyes searching for a cab. ‘I don’t think that woman knows what she wants, Marriott,’ he said. ‘One minute she says she was glad to see the back of Utting, and the next she’s complaining about having empty rooms. There’s no pleasing some people.’

  ‘Very true, sir,’ said Marriott, with a measure of heartfelt feeling.

  THIRTEEN

  It was nigh on four o’clock by the time a frustrated Hardcastle returned to Cannon Row Police Station.

  ‘I don’t know, Marriott,’ he said, taking off his spats and shoes, and massaging his feet, ‘we’re getting no bloody where with this enquiry.’

  Detective Constable Henry Catto tapped on Hardcastle’s door. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  ‘Yes, what d’you want, Catto?’

  ‘A message from the DDI at Chelsea nick, sir.’

  ‘Not a murder on his patch he wants clearing up, is it?’

  ‘Er, no, sir. Not as far as I know.’ Catto looked suitably bemused by the DDI’s response. ‘A PC on the Gloucester Street night-duty beat saw a van being loaded outside number five at about ten to twelve last Thursday evening, sir.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Hardcastle replaced his shoes and spats, and leaned forward to take his pipe out of the ashtray. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘The PC spoke to the van driver, and he admitted that he was moving the folk at that house, sir.’

  ‘And I suppose this PC thought it was all right, someone shifting their furniture late at night, did he?’

  Catto immediately felt sympathy for the unknown PC. ‘Apparently, the van driver said that the man who lived at number five worked very late, and was only able to supervise his removal at that hour, sir.’

  ‘Worked late my arse,’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘A likely bloody story, that is.’

  By now, Catto was beginning to think that this unusual removal was somehow his fault, but that was the effect Hardcastle had upon him.

  ‘There was something else, sir. The PC took a note of the removal company’s details, sir.’

  ‘Ah, that’s better. Well, let’s have them, Catto, and stop beating about the bush.’

  ‘It was a Percy Tranter of Tachbrook St
reet, sir.’

  ‘Right. Off you go, Catto.’

  ‘You want me to make enquiries there, sir?’ Catto was never quite sure how to interpret the DDI’s instructions.

  ‘Of course I don’t, Catto. This enquiry requires experienced detectives, like me and Sergeant Marriott here.’

  The woman who answered the door of Tranter’s house looked nervously at the two detectives. Something in their appearance – and in her experience – led her to believe that their arrival did not bode well.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘I’m looking for someone called Percy Tranter,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘That’ll be my husband. Who wants him?’

  ‘We’re police officers,’ said Hardcastle, a statement that confirmed the woman’s initial apprehension.

  ‘You’d better come in. He’s in his office. He’s not in trouble again, is he?’ the woman asked, as an afterthought.

  ‘Remains to be seen,’ said Hardcastle, making a mental note to discover if the man had a criminal record.

  The woman led the way, and pushed open the door of a small room on the front of the house. A man was sitting at a worn desk, his back to the door, poring over a sheaf of papers. He was wearing a collarless shirt with armbands round the sleeves.

  ‘Percy, there’s someone to see you.’

  The man carried on studying his papers. ‘What do they want, Ethel?’ he said, without turning. ‘Tell ’em we’re booked up till next Wednesday.’

  ‘We’re police officers,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Are you Percy Tranter, a haulier?’

  The man swung round in his chair, and then leaped to his feet, a hunted look on his face. He rapidly hooked his braces over his shoulders. ‘Yes, what is it? I ain’t done nothing wrong, guv’nor, so help me.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ Hardcastle glanced at Tranter’s wife. ‘Thank you Mrs Tranter,’ he said, by way of dismissal, and then turned his attention to the haulier. ‘Last Thursday night you removed some furniture from number five Gloucester Street.’

  ‘It was all above board, guv’nor,’ said Tranter. ‘I wasn’t thieving it. I was doing it for Mr Utting. It weren’t nicked, nor nothing like that.’