Hardcastle's Soldiers

by Graham Ison

  But an event occurred later that day that was to change completely the direction of Hardcastle’s enquiries.

  SIXTEEN

  At about eleven o’clock that night, and shortly after the maroons had signalled yet another air raid on the capital, a patrolling A Division PC had knocked at the door of seventeen Francis Street to advise the occupants that they were showing a light. Regulations required houses to be ‘blacked out’ with heavy curtains. But before the door was answered, an upstairs window had opened, and a man fired a round from a revolver at the policeman.

  The constable, fortunately unhurt, had wisely retreated to a safe point, and sent the officer on the adjoining beat to Rochester Row Police Station to inform the station officer of what had occurred.

  Within minutes, Superintendent Arthur Hudson, head of A Division, had been advised of the shooting, and he, in turn, had immediately telephoned Sir Edward Henry at home.

  The moment Sir Edward Henry, the Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis, had finished talking to Hudson, he tapped the receiver of his telephone. It was immediately answered by the operator at Paddington Green Police Station to which the Commissioner’s telephone was directly connected.

  ‘Get me Sir Herbert Samuel at home, as soon as you can, if you please.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ came the response, and within seconds the Commissioner was talking to the Home Secretary.

  Henry explained, as succinctly as possible, the situation that had arisen at Francis Street.

  ‘Thank you for telling me, Commissioner,’ said Samuel. ‘Perhaps you’d be so good as to keep me informed of the outcome.’

  ‘Of course, Home Secretary.’ Sir Edward Henry paused. ‘Will you be attending the scene?’

  ‘Certainly not, Commissioner. I have the utmost faith in the Metropolitan Police to resolve the situation. From what you tell me, this is not another Sidney Street, and I am most certainly not another Winston Churchill.’

  The so-called ‘Siege of Sidney Street’ in 1911 had begun when the occupants of number one hundred, believed to be Bolshevik anarchists, began firing at police who were attempting to arrest them for the murder of three City of London policemen at Houndsditch the previous year. A company of Scots Guards had been deployed to contain the situation, and Winston Churchill, then Home Secretary, had arrived at the scene and directed operations, much to the annoyance of the army officers there.

  ‘I appreciate that, Home Secretary, but in the event that I need the services of the military, I shall require your authority.’

  ‘D’you think it will come to that, Commissioner?’

  ‘I hope not, Home Secretary.’

  ‘Well, we’ll wait and see. Good night, Commissioner.’ The Home Secretary replaced the receiver of his telephone, and went back to sleep.

  Hardcastle had not been home for more than an hour – time enough to scan the pages of the Star evening newspaper – when there was a furious hammering at the front door.

  A policeman stood on the doorstep. ‘Mr Hardcastle, sir?’

  ‘Yes. What’s all the fuss about, lad?’

  The policeman saluted. ‘You’re required urgently at Francis Street, sir.’ He proffered an official message form. ‘And the maroons went off at Southwark Fire Station nigh on an hour ago.’

  Unconcerned by yet another air raid, Hardcastle put on his glasses, and scanned the brief message. ‘Well I’ll be buggered! It’s bloody Jack Utting,’ he exclaimed, and thrust the form into his jacket pocket. ‘Find me a cab, lad, as quick as you can.’

  While the policeman was searching for a taxi, Hardcastle put on his bowler hat and seized his umbrella. ‘I’ve got to go out, Alice,’ he yelled up the stairs, hoping that his wife was still awake. She had lately developed a habit of reading Woman’s Weekly in bed, much to Hardcastle’s irritation. He could not sleep while she still had the light on.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Ernie,’ came Alice Hardcastle’s reply from upstairs. It was her usual response to the departure of her husband, but secretly she was always worried when he was called out late at night. It was as well that Hardcastle had not told her why he had been summoned to Francis Street.

  The DDI walked out to the street, and glanced up at the night sky. In the distance, he could see the searchlights mounted on Apsley Gate at Hyde Park Corner criss-crossing as they scoured the sky for the deadly Gotha bombers.

  ‘Your cab’s here, sir.’ The policeman appeared out of the gloom created by the latest blackout regulations, the result of which was to require that most of London’s street lamps were switched off, and that the few that remained were dimmed.

  ‘Francis Street, as quick as you can, cabbie,’ said Hardcastle, almost throwing himself into the taxi.

  As Hardcastle arrived at Francis Street, the uniformed figure of Superintendent Arthur Hudson appeared out of the gloom, and joined Hardcastle and Harry Marsh, the sub-divisional inspector in charge of the Rochester Row sub-division, who had been called to the scene earlier. Marsh had already ordered the closure of Francis Street a hundred yards in either direction from the Uttings’ house, and had had the residents of the street warned to stay away from their windows.

  ‘I’ve informed the Commissioner, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Hudson.

  ‘What exactly has happened, sir?’

  ‘According to Mr Marsh, it all started about thirty-five minutes ago,’ said Hudson, and told the DDI what had occurred. ‘But why the occupant should have started shooting at the PC remains a mystery.’

  ‘Not to me, sir,’ said Hardcastle. ‘The man who lives there is Jack Utting, and I fancy him for involvement in the murder of the man Somers at Victoria Station on the eleventh of July.’ The DDI quickly brought the superintendent up to date with the outcome of his enquiries.

  ‘It looks as though you were right, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Hudson thoughtfully. ‘So you think he’s a killer.’

  ‘I do, sir,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but all I need is the evidence. This affair might just provide it.’

  At that moment another harmless round was fired from the upstairs window of number seventeen.

  ‘Move down the street,’ shouted Hardcastle at the group of policemen who had been summoned to the scene, and were now gathered near the Uttings’ house. ‘Unless one of you wants to be killed. That blue serge you’re wearing ain’t bulletproof.’ He steered Superintendent Hudson rapidly out of the line of fire.

  ‘D’you think we’re likely to need the military, Mr Hardcastle?’ asked Hudson.

  ‘I doubt it, sir. It’s not looking like another Sidney Street,’ said Hardcastle, unknowingly echoing what the Commissioner had said to the Home Secretary earlier.

  ‘Mr Sankey.’ Superintendent Hudson beckoned to the Rochester Row duty officer.

  ‘Sir?’ Inspector Jasper Sankey had been the first senior officer at the scene of the shooting. And he and the others were now well away from the Uttings’ house.

  ‘I take it you’ve sent to the station for firearms?’

  Each police station held a stock of pistols and revolvers for use in emergencies such as the police were now facing in Francis Street. Some were the more modern point-32 calibre Webley and Scott automatics, but following the outbreak of the war, many of the unreliable Webley revolvers that the automatics had replaced had been reissued.

  ‘Yes, sir. Two PCs should be back here shortly. And I’ve told them to bring a megaphone, in case you should need it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Hudson. ‘What chance d’you think they’ll have of hitting the chap in the window?’

  Sankey, who had served in the First Boer War, shook his head. ‘The revolvers don’t have as much stopping power as the automatics, sir, but either way the officer would have to get much closer to the target to stand any chance of making a hit. And to do that, he’d risk being shot himself.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’ Hudson turned to the DDI. ‘Have you any suggestions, Mr Hardcastle?’

  ‘It might be possible to get someone round behind the house, sir
, and effect an entry via the garden and the back door. But we don’t know whether the man with the gun is the only armed man inside. The last time Marriott and I called there only Utting was living in the house, together with his wife and baby. I suppose it could be Utting who’s shooting, but I can’t recognize him at this distance. But I have my doubts about that; Jack Utting’s a gutless little bastard who’s terrified even of being a bank clerk.’

  ‘Have you got someone who could take a look round the back, Mr Hardcastle? Better to send a plain-clothes officer than a uniformed one, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Hardcastle was reluctant to risk one of his own men, but could see the sense of what the superintendent had suggested. He glanced around just as Detective Sergeant Marriott arrived, having been summoned from his quarters in Regency Street at the DDI’s behest. DS Wood, and DCs Catto and Lipton, all of whom had also been called out, arrived at the same time. ‘Marriott, I’ve got a job for you.’ The DDI quickly explained the situation. ‘See if you can get round the back of the Uttings’ house, and find out if there’s any way in. Best idea is to knock at the house next door and ask if you can go through their garden to have a look.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘And keep your head down, Marriott. I can’t afford to lose a first-class sergeant. Even you,’ he added with a rare grin.

  Affecting a stooped posture – which, in the circumstances was pointless, but made him feel safer – Charles Marriott ran quickly along the pavement on the opposite side of the empty road from number seventeen. It was still too near, but was as far away as he could get from the gunman in the upstairs window. Crossing over, he reached number fifteen, the house next door to the one containing the gunman. Lifting the heavy ram’s head knocker, he banged repeatedly in his desire to get out of the line of fire.

  Eventually, a worried face appeared round the edge of the door.

  ‘What is it?’ The man who answered was some fifty years of age.

  ‘I’m a police officer, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘Detective Sergeant Marriott.’

  ‘How do I know that?’ the man asked. Apparently satisfied once Marriott had produced his warrant card, the man opened the door a little wider. ‘What’s going on at number seventeen?’ he demanded.

  Marriott pushed his way into the hall. ‘There’s a man at the upstairs window shooting at police officers, sir,’ he said breathlessly, not telling the man something he did not already know.

  ‘A German spy, is he?’ In common with most people, the occupant believed that any untoward incident occurring since the war had started was somehow associated with enemy aliens.

  ‘Not as far as we know, sir.’ Marriott closed the front door. ‘I wonder if I might go through to your garden. I want to see if there’s a back way into the house next door. And tell your family to stay away from the windows,’ he added, as an afterthought, even though that advice had already been given earlier by the Rochester Row duty officer.

  The house was similar in layout to its neighbour, and the occupant led Marriott through the hallway towards the back door. But as they were passing the sitting room, another man appeared in the doorway. Dressed in army uniform, he wore a colour-sergeant’s badges of rank.

  Marriott stopped as he recognized the brass shoulder titles denoting that the soldier belonged to the Middlesex Regiment.

  ‘A Diehard, eh?’ Marriott knew the regiment’s nickname.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the colour-sergeant.

  ‘My brother-in-law’s in your lot,’ said Marriott.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Frank Dobson. He’s a company sergeant-major.’

  ‘Well, I’m buggered. I know him well. He’s not only in my battalion, he’s in my company. It’s a small world. So you must be Charlie Marriott, the copper. He’s talked a lot about you. I’m Cecil Berryman. Pleased to meet you.’ The soldier shook hands. ‘You’ve got a bit of a to-do going on next door, then. Someone taking pot shots?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marriott. ‘One of our PCs knocked at number seventeen to tell them they were showing a light, and a bloke started shooting at him from an upstairs window. God knows why.’

  ‘Was your man hurt?’

  ‘No. I don’t think our gunman’s a very good shot.’

  Berryman ran a hand round his chin. ‘I don’t know if I can help,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘but I’ve got my rifle upstairs. We always have to bring it home when we come on leave. If you want me to take this bugger out for you, just say the word.’

  It was Marriott’s turn to appear thoughtful. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘We’re supposed to have the Home Secretary’s say-so before we deploy the military, but the truth is that none of our officers can get near enough to pick him off with a pistol, and that’s all we’ve got. Not without our man being put in danger of getting shot. And between you and me, Cecil, I don’t think our chaps are very good shots.’

  ‘Well, Charlie, just say the word.’ Berryman grinned. ‘I’m on leave for a fortnight, but it’d be as well to keep my hand in, so to speak.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with my guv’nor, Cecil, and see what he says. In the meantime, I’ll have a look at the back of number seventeen to see if we can get in that way, and surprise him.’

  ‘Right. And I’ll give your regards to Frank when I get back. He’ll like to know I’ve met you. Even though it wasn’t over a pint,’ he added with a laugh. ‘More’s the pity.’

  Marriott followed the householder, who proved to be Cecil Berryman’s father, into the garden.

  ‘Is the back of number seventeen the same as yours, Mr Berryman?’

  ‘Yes, it is, Mr Marriott. Both houses are of the same design.’

  For a moment or two, Marriott studied the rear of the Berrymans’ house, and noted the low garden fence. It would be no obstacle for a policeman.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Berryman. It might be possible for some of our men to force an entry through that back door, if you’ve no objection to them coming through your house.’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Marriott. They’re a rum lot in that house. Not long moved in. He doesn’t seem to go to work, and his floozy of a wife reckons she’s an actress, so she told the missus. But she’s not doing much acting lately, because she’s got a little one to look after. Mind you, I have seen her going out of an evening. I suppose her husband looks after the bairn.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Marriott, but he thought he knew the real reason for Nancy Utting’s late-night excursions.

  Marriott explained to Hardcastle and Superintendent Hudson what he had learned, and mentioned that the soldier at number fifteen was willing to take a shot at the gunman now holding the police at bay.

  Hardcastle took out his pipe and lit it, while he considered the offer made by Colour-Sergeant Berryman. ‘What d’you think about that, sir?’ he asked Hudson.

  ‘We really ought to get the Commissioner’s authority to use the military, Mr Hardcastle,’ said the superintendent doubtfully.

  ‘But that could take hours, sir. The Commissioner would have to get on to the Home Secretary, and he’d have to speak to the Secretary of State for War. Then we’d have to wait while the army got their act together, and managed to turn up here. I’ve no doubt there are some complicated regulations about use of the military in aid of the civil power, and all sorts of forms to fill up. I reckon we’re looking at six or seven hours, at the very least, even though the nearest soldiers are at Wellington Barracks. And it’s Friday night, sir. All the people who make those decisions will be away at their places in the country, I shouldn’t wonder, war or no war.’ Hardcastle came up with a reason that he was certain would convince the superintendent. ‘If we delay, sir, innocent people might get killed.’

  But still Superintendent Hudson was unsure. After all, Hardcastle was not the officer who would have to bear the responsibility. ‘It’s taking a chance, Mr Hardcastle, and I do see your point. But just supposing that Berryman killed our gunman, we’d have God knows
how much trouble on our hands. The coroner would have to decide whether it was justifiable homicide or even murder.’

  ‘A couple of rounds in our villain’s direction, sir, and I reckon he’d throw in the towel.’ Hardcastle was never a man to be pessimistic about the outcome of a police operation. ‘I reckon it’s worth taking the risk.’ What the DDI did not say was that if the operation was successful, the superintendent might get promoted, but if it were a failure, he would probably be looking at some sort of disciplinary sanction.

  But Hardcastle’s conversation with the superintendent was interrupted by the drone of a Gotha bomber right overhead. Seconds later there was an explosion as a bomb fell in a nearby street.

  ‘Bloody hell, that was near,’ said Harry Marsh, the sub-divisional inspector. ‘I’ll bet it was on my patch.’

  Suddenly the air was rent with the sound of the anti-aircraft guns in Hyde Park opening up in an attempt to hit the German raiders, while the white fingers of the searchlights swung back and forth as they searched feverishly to find a target for the gunners.

  ‘Pity it didn’t hit the Uttings’ house,’ commented Hardcastle.

  ‘You’d better take a look at where that bomb fell, Mr Marsh,’ said Hudson. ‘It looks as though all our policemen are here. If you need any, I’m sure we can spare a few.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Marsh, and hurried away in the direction of where the bomb had fallen.

  ‘I think we’ll take advantage of Colour-Sergeant Berryman’s offer, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Hudson, at last making a decision.

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Hardcastle turned to Marriott. ‘Ask the colour-sergeant to join us out here, Marriott, and tell him to bring his rifle.’

  ‘Mr Sankey,’ said Hudson, addressing the Rochester Row duty inspector. ‘Be so good as to rouse the occupants of the house opposite number seventeen, if they’re not awake already, and ask them if we might put a man with a rifle in their upstairs window. If it’s all right, signal with your lantern.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Sankey sped down the road and banged on the door of number fourteen Francis Street, hoping that the gunman would not loose off a round at him.