Hardcastle's Soldiers

by Graham Ison

  ‘At what time did you undertake this removal?’ asked Hardcastle, amused at the speed with which the haulier went on the defensive.

  ‘Just before midnight, guv’nor.’

  ‘Funny time to be moving furniture,’ said Marriott. ‘Very suspicious.’

  ‘Yeah, well, Mr Utting said as how he worked late, and that was the most convenient time. He had to see his stuff out, and he couldn’t’ve done it no earlier. He reckoned he’d got a very important job. Something to do with the war effort, he said.’

  Hardcastle laughed. ‘War effort be buggered. Did it cross your mind that he might’ve been doing a moonlight flit, Tranter?’ suggested Hardcastle. ‘Because the Mutual Life Insurance Company that owns the property is none too pleased about it, and right now they’re looking for someone who can pay the rent he owes ’em.’

  ‘His rent ain’t nothing to do with me, guv’nor,’ pleaded Tranter. ‘I was doing him a favour, like. I don’t normally work that late.’

  ‘How did he book you for this removal of his?’ Marriott stepped a little closer to Tranter, further alarming him.

  ‘I met him down a pub in Vauxhall Bridge Road. We often had a drink together.’

  Hardcastle crossed the room to stare out of the dirty window of Tranter’s office. ‘Have you ever noticed, Marriott, how all the dubious transactions we come across are somehow arranged in a boozer?’ he said, apparently addressing the street.

  ‘It’s quite remarkable, sir,’ said Marriott.

  ‘There was nothing dodgy about it, guv’nor. I swear.’ By now, Tranter’s voice had assumed a whining tone. But he had had dealings with the police before – a matter of some unaccounted-for lead from a church roof that was found in his van – and the outcome was a stretch in Wandsworth Prison.

  ‘I wouldn’t call conspiracy to defraud an insurance company exactly legal,’ said Hardcastle, turning from the window to fix the luckless Tranter with an icy gaze. He saw no reason to tell Tranter that Utting’s rent arrears were nothing to do with the removal man.

  ‘But I never knew that’s what he was up to, so help me.’

  ‘Dear me,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Well, while I’m considering what to do about you, you can tell me where you took his goods and chattels.’

  ‘Denbigh Street, guv’nor,’ said Tranter promptly. ‘Number twenty-six.’

  ‘And you actually unloaded his belongings into that house, did you, Tranter?’ asked Marriott.

  There was a distinct pause before Tranter replied. ‘Well, not exactly,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Not exactly?’ said Hardcastle. ‘Either you did or you didn’t. What happened … exactly?’

  ‘Mr Utting said as how it was getting so late, and if I’d like to leave the van outside his new drum overnight, he’d unload it himself. There wasn’t a great deal of it, and he said he didn’t want to keep me up too late. He said that as I’d done him a favour, he’d do me one in return.’

  ‘So you went back there the following morning, and picked up your van, did you?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘And did you see Mr Utting on that Friday morning?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t about, but he’d left the key on top of the front wheel, under the mudguard. So I drove it back here.’

  ‘Did Utting pay you?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Yeah, course he did. A quid.’

  ‘You were lucky to get it,’ said Hardcastle, and turned to his sergeant. ‘Isn’t that an amazing tale, Marriott? Well, I think we’ll pay Mr Tranter’s friend Utting a visit. See how he’s getting on now he’s out of work.’ The DDI turned to the haulier. ‘And while I’m doing that, I’ll think about what to do about you.’ He paused. ‘As a matter of interest, why aren’t you in the army, Tranter?’

  ‘I ain’t fit,’ said Tranter.

  ‘Really? But you’re fit enough to hump furniture about. I might have a word with the War Office about you, just in case they’ve lowered the standards. Good day to you, Tranter.’

  For the past few days the weather had been unbearably hot, and the windows in Hardcastle’s office were wide open. The DDI ran a finger around the inside of his starched collar, cursing, yet again, the convention that required him to wear a waistcoat, even in the height of summer.

  But on the other side of the channel, the men in the trenches, usually up to their knees – and worse – in mud, were now suffering in the excessive heat. Some of the soldiers had cut the legs from their trousers to turn them into shorts; a form of tailoring that would displease the quartermaster who would undoubtedly make a charge for the damage. On some parts of the Front typhus had struck the enemy, but fortunately the British troops had, so far, escaped its ravages.

  Unable to get his usual Daily Mail, Hardcastle had reluctantly bought The Times that morning, and saw that it carried a letter from a young officer, Captain Siegfried Sassoon, holder of the Military Cross, who had attempted to resign his commission in protest at what he called ‘a war of aggression’, but he had been transferred to Craiglockhart Hospital in south-west Edinburgh, Scotland, a facility that specialized in neurasthenics or, as the troops called it, shell-shock. It did not, however, stop an outcry from those who suggested he should be court-martialled and shot for cowardice, as so many ‘ordinary’ soldiers had been.

  Hardcastle’s first-class sergeant knocked on the DDI’s door, and entered.

  ‘Yes, what is it, Marriott?’ Hardcastle folded his newspaper, and tossed it to one side.

  ‘A message from the DDI on B, sir,’ said Marriott.

  ‘And what does Mr Garwood have to say?’

  ‘He’s received another report from a beat-duty constable, sir. Apparently this PC saw a furniture van being unloaded outside a house in Francis Street early in the morning last Friday. The PC did a check on the registration mark, and the van was the same one that the other PC saw taking the furniture from the Gloucester Street house. As it was likely the Uttings’ goods and chattels were being shifted, Mr Garwood saw fit to advise us.’

  ‘It strikes me that this murder enquiry has developed into a wild-goose chase, Marriott. We’ve finished up following a bloody furniture van halfway round the Metropolitan Police District.’

  That was Marriott’s view, too, but he deemed it impolitic to say as much. In his opinion, the DDI was straying farther and farther away from discovering the actual murderer of Herbert Somers. And possibly of Ivy Huggins too. Not that the latter was his problem nor, for that matter, Hardcastle’s.

  ‘We’d better go and have a look, Marriott.’

  The woman who answered the door was holding a baby on her hip. The child looked to be about a year old, which accorded with the statement of Mrs Tolley, the Uttings’ previous landlady, that Nancy Utting had been six months pregnant when she was married to Jack Utting in January.

  ‘Good morning, madam.’ Hardcastle raised his hat. ‘I’m a police officer. Is Jack Utting here?’

  A look of alarm spread across the woman’s face. ‘How did you find us?’ she blurted out. Had she had time to think, she would not have said that.

  ‘It’s called detective work,’ said Hardcastle drily. ‘You’re Mrs Utting, I take it.’ The woman’s concern at his arrival had not escaped his notice.

  ‘Yes. What’s it about?’ Nancy Utting’s blonde hair was worn loose, and reached to below her shoulders. She wore a full-length, low-cut, black dress that, fitting tightly to below her hips, displayed her good figure to advantage. It was a form of attire that seemed to confirm Mrs Tolley’s view that Nancy Utting was a ‘strumpet’.

  ‘We want to talk to him about the murder at Victoria Station a week ago last Wednesday.’

  Hardcastle’s reason for wanting to speak to her husband seemed to offer no relief to Nancy Utting’s concern, and she held the door firmly with her free hand.

  ‘Jack’s not here at the moment. He’s out looking for work.’

  ‘Has he given up his job at the bank, then, Mrs Utting?’ Marriott
well knew this to be the case, but he had learned a trick or two from his DDI.

  ‘He reckoned it was too dangerous.’

  ‘Dangerous?’ echoed Hardcastle. ‘What, being a bank clerk?’

  ‘It was after that poor Mr Somers was killed. I said to Jack that he ought to find something else. What with Archie still being only a baby.’

  ‘How old is the boy?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Thirteen months,’ replied Nancy Utting promptly.

  ‘He’s a nice-looking young fellow. Keep you up much at nights, does he?’

  ‘All too often, I’m afraid. He’s teething, you see.’

  ‘Yes, that’s always a problem. How long have you been married, then?’ Hardcastle knew the answer to his question, and had asked it out of sheer devilment.

  Nancy Utting hesitated slightly before answering with a lie. ‘About fourteen months.’

  Hardcastle nodded. ‘Well, when your husband gets in, be so good as to ask him to call round to Cannon Row Police Station. I need to have a word with him about the routine of the teller who runs the money-exchange booth at Victoria. As your husband usually did it, he’s the man to help us with our enquiries.’

  ‘All right,’ said Nancy. The baby began to cry, and she moved him from her hip into her arms, and gently rocked him to and fro. ‘Who should he ask for?’

  ‘Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle. I’m investigating Mr Somers’ murder.’

  Using her elbow, Utting’s wife began to nudge the door closed.

  ‘You’ve only just moved in,’ said Hardcastle, placing a staying hand on the door. ‘Why did you leave your other place?’

  ‘We had to. Now that Jack’s out of work, we couldn’t afford the rent. This place is cheaper, you see.’

  ‘One other thing, Mrs Utting,’ said Hardcastle, refusing to be forced out of the house until he had had all his questions answered. ‘The day your husband got knocked over by a bicycle—’

  ‘Knocked over? He wasn’t knocked over.’

  ‘Really? It was the day before Mr Somers was murdered at Victoria Station.’

  ‘Oh, that. Yes, I remember it now,’ said Nancy, a flush rising to her cheeks.

  ‘Did he spend all day at home?’

  ‘I don’t really remember. I suppose he must’ve done.’ Nancy Utting frowned, clearly at a loss to know what to say. She had no knowledge of her husband being involved in an accident, and she wondered whether this was a story he had told the police. ‘But I’ve had so much on my mind, what with moving house and everything, that I can’t really remember.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mrs Utting,’ said Hardcastle smoothly. ‘I was just wondering, that’s all.’

  ‘What d’you make of that, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle, as they made their way back to the police station.

  ‘I don’t think she’s telling the whole truth, sir.’

  Hardcastle scoffed. ‘The truth? She was lying through her teeth, Marriott. Married fourteen months be buggered. I reckon that Jack Utting’s done a runner.’

  ‘But why, sir?’

  ‘He’s tied up in this somehow, Marriott, you mark my words.’

  ‘But it’s possible that he is out looking for work, sir.’

  ‘The reason he gave for chucking in his job at the bank is all my eye and Betty Martin,’ said Hardcastle dismissively. ‘What are the chances of another bank clerk being murdered in one of them huts at Victoria Station, eh? No, he’s up to something.’

  ‘What’s our next move, then, sir?’

  ‘I’m thinking about it, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle enigmatically.

  It was not until Hardcastle had reached his office, and got his pipe going, that he spoke again.

  ‘Who have we got who’s not doing anything, Marriott?’

  Marriott was aware that Hardcastle wanted to know the availability of Cannon Row’s detective officers. He replied promptly. ‘Catto and Lipton, sir. They’re writing up reports in the office.’

  ‘Good, fetch ’em in.’

  Seconds later, the two detective constables appeared in Hardcastle’s office.

  ‘Sergeant Marriott tells me you and Lipton haven’t got much on at the moment.’

  ‘Er, well, I, that is to say, we …’ stuttered Catto. Being the senior of the two DCs he felt it incumbent upon him to answer, but, as usual, the DDI had put him in a difficult situation, and he was not quite sure how to reply. If Catto agreed, he would be asked why they were sitting in the office when they could be out on the streets catching criminals. On the other hand, if he told the truth, and said they were writing reports, Hardcastle would want to know what was taking them so long.

  ‘In other words, you’ve got bugger all to do,’ said Hardcastle crushingly.

  ‘Well, sir—’ began Catto.

  ‘I thought so. Well, I’ve got a job for you. I want you to set up an observation on Jack Utting. Sergeant Marriott will give you the address.’

  ‘D’you want him nicked, sir?’ asked Catto.

  ‘It strikes me you’re all too keen on feeling collars, Catto,’ said Hardcastle. ‘No, I don’t want him arrested. I want to know where he goes when he leaves his house. Once you’ve done that, and he returns, you can bring him to the nick.’

  ‘But you said you didn’t want him arrested, sir.’ Catto was now thoroughly confused.

  ‘I don’t want him arrested, Catto. I want you to invite him politely to come to the police station in order that I can ask him some questions. And if he refuses, you’ll persuade him that it would be very unwise to refuse an invitation from a divisional detective inspector. You got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Catto, wondering how he was to persuade an unwilling witness to come to the station without arresting him.

  ‘I hope you’ve understood all that, Lipton,’ said Hardcastle, turning his gaze on the other detective. ‘Even if Catto hasn’t.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Lipton was pleased that he was junior to Catto, sensing that if anything went wrong, it would be Henry Catto who would be in trouble with the DDI.

  Once the two detectives had left the office to embark on their unwelcome duty, Hardcastle rubbed his hands together.

  ‘Fetch Wood in here, Marriott.’

  When DS Wood entered the office, Hardcastle put his pipe in the ashtray. ‘Wood, you got the details of Nancy Utting née Mansfield from Somerset House, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Have a word with Vine Street nick and see if they’ve any record of her being knocked off for soliciting prostitution. I’ve a feeling in my water that she’s the sort of woman who puts herself about. And with Jack Utting being out of work, she might be the family’s only breadwinner. Her previous landlady seemed to think so.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ said Wood.

  ‘By the way, Wood, did you make those enquiries at the other barracks about Lieutenant Mansfield?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I called at Wellington, Chelsea and Hyde Park Barracks. I even tried Kingston Barracks, but Mr Mansfield hadn’t registered with any of them.’

  ‘I thought as much. All right, Wood, carry on. And now, Marriott, I think we’ll go and have another chat with Miss Isabella Harcourt,’ said Hardcastle, once Wood had left to undertake the DDI’s enquiry. ‘See if she can shed some light on what’s been going on.’

  ‘D’you think she’ll be able to help in any way, sir?’ Marriott was often puzzled by his DDI’s sudden decisions, but could not for the life of him understand what Hardcastle hoped to achieve by interviewing Lieutenant Mansfield’s fiancée again. ‘After all, we’ve established that it wasn’t her fiancé we spoke to on the day of the murder.’

  Hardcastle said nothing, but merely smiled and tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger.

  FOURTEEN

  It was a pleasant, sunny afternoon, and Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood decided that he would walk from Cannon Row to Vine Street Police Station. It was only about a mile if he went via Cockspur Street and then cut through the bac
k streets to Piccadilly. Being a sergeant, he did not get to do much patrolling, and the opportunity for a stroll in the fresh air was more than welcome.

  The constable on duty at the door of the police station, his thumbs tucked under his tunic pocket buttons, looked up in surprise as he saw DS Wood’s figure approaching. ‘Well, I’m damned, if it ain’t Bert Wood.’

  ‘Good grief, “Pincher” Martin,’ said Wood, as he shook hands with the PC. Ten years previously, Douglas Martin and Wood had been among the first recruits at the newly opened Peel House, the Metropolitan Police training school in Victoria.

  ‘Where’re you doing it, Bert?’ asked Martin, using the police shorthand for enquiring where someone was serving.

  ‘On A at Cannon Row.’

  Martin laughed. ‘Come up to Vine Street to see how proper police work’s done?’

  ‘I can see you’re not doing much of it, standing on the front door of the nick sunning yourself,’ said Wood.

  ‘It’s to stop idle callers troubling the high and mighty station officer,’ said Martin. ‘Anyway, what are you really doing up here?’

  ‘I’ve come to have a look at your toms’ register, Pincher. I’m working on a murder with my DDI.’

  ‘What, the one at Victoria Station? Nasty business that.’ Martin half bowed and swept a hand towards the police station entrance. ‘Be my guest, Bert. Don’t want to hold up detective officers on an important mission for their DDI.’

  Once inside the police station, Wood explained to the station officer what he was seeking. ‘Anything you’ve got on a Nancy Utting, or maybe in her maiden name of Mansfield, skip,’ he said.

  The sergeant quickly produced one of a plethora of bound volumes that were on the shelf behind his desk, and handed it over. ‘Help yourself, mate,’ he said.

  It did not take Wood long to find what he was looking for, or, more to the point, what Hardcastle wanted. He made a few notes, thanked the station officer, and went on his way.

  ‘How about a beer some time, Bert?’ suggested Martin as Wood left the station.

  ‘Yeah, why not? You earlies next week?’