by Graham Ison
‘I want a lawyer,’ said Nash.
‘Yes, I think you do,’ commented Hardcastle. ‘And when you see him perhaps you’ll tell him I shall also charge you with the attempted murder of a police officer in Francis Street on Friday the twenty-seventh of this month. Incidentally, where did you get the revolver you used to shoot at my officers?’
‘I was issued with it, of course.’ The reply was surly.
‘And the one you used to club Herbert Somers to death?’
‘Find out.’
It was nearing nine o’clock that evening by the time that Hardcastle turned his attention to Cora Utting.
Languishing in a cell for nigh on two and a half hours had terrified Adrian Nash’s eighteen-year-old fiancée, and she had spent most of the time sobbing. It was a combination of fear, and the certain knowledge that her fiancé was to be hanged.
‘Well, young lady,’ Hardcastle began, as he and Marriott entered the interview room, ‘I think it’s time you told us all you know.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ said the tearful Cora, staring imploringly at the DDI with red-rimmed eyes.
‘Let me explain the situation to you, then,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Your fiancé has been arrested for murder. That much I told you before.’
‘I don’t believe he had anything to do with a murder.’
‘Just listen.’ Hardcastle spoke softly, and tried to bear in mind that the young woman opposite him was only a year younger than his daughter Maud, and he was aware of how immature, on occasion, she could be, despite nursing wounded soldiers. ‘There is no doubt in my mind that Adrian Nash was responsible for two murders, and one of the victims was a prostitute who he’d picked up in Kingston after stealing a van from a lock-up garage.’
‘A prostitute?’ Cora could not disguise her shock at this revelation. ‘I don’t believe it.’ But it was obvious that she did, and was starting to realize that Adrian Nash was not the man, resplendent in an officer’s uniform, whom she thought would make a dashing and gallant husband.
‘He will be charged with those murders, and doubtless your brother Jack will also be charged as an accessory.’ Hardcastle was by no means sure that Jack Utting was involved in any way with the killings, but saw no reason to share those doubts with Utting’s sister. ‘Now, unless you want to join your fiancé and your brother in the dock at the Old Bailey, it would be best if you told me all you know.’
Cora Utting plucked a handkerchief from her sleeve, and began to cry again. ‘I don’t know anything about it, honestly,’ she blurted out between sobs.
‘You know nothing about the uniform we found at your house, then?’ asked Marriott.
‘No, honestly, I thought it belonged to Adrian.’
‘But it had different badges on it, and two stars on the shoulder straps,’ said Marriott. ‘Your fiancé is a second-lieutenant, and that merits only one star.’
‘I told you, I know nothing about the army. All I can tell you is they made Adrian an officer, and I was very proud of him.’
Marriott glanced at Hardcastle and sighed. ‘What d’you think, sir?’
Hardcastle leaned back in his chair, and lit his pipe. Then he spent a little while studying the young woman on the other side of the table. ‘Release her, Marriott,’ he said eventually. He looked closely at Cora Utting. ‘But if I find out you’ve been lying to me, miss, I’ll come after you. D’you understand?’
‘Oh, yes, I do. But I never knew anything about that uniform, honestly. Adrian said it was his, and I believed him.’
‘Make sure she gets a taxi, Marriott. I don’t want a young girl like Miss Utting roaming about the streets of London this late at night.’
‘Her father’s here, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘He arrived just before we started to talk to Miss Utting.’
‘Is he? Well, in that case, I’ll have a word with him.’
‘Do you think she knew about the murder, sir?’ asked Marriott.
‘Maybe,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but I see no profit in taking her to court. Her brief would only have to say that she knew nothing about the uniform or the murder, and we’d be hard pressed to prove that she did.’
‘But she must’ve known about Nash masquerading as Mansfield, sir.’
‘Why d’you say that, Marriott?’
‘Well, sir, when we arrested Nash at Francis Street, he was in civilian clothing. But we found the North Staffs uniform in Cora’s wardrobe. Now, she said that she hadn’t seen Adrian for three weeks, which takes us back to before the murder. But he must’ve called at Acre Lane after the murder to leave the uniform there.’
‘Yes, well, I spotted that, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle.
NINETEEN
Cora Utting had been handed over to the care of the police station matron – who promptly made the girl a cup of tea – while Hardcastle and Marriott escorted the girl’s father to the DDI’s office for a brief conversation.
‘I want to know the meaning of this, Inspector,’ Utting began. He was clearly very annoyed at the DDI’s arrest of his daughter. ‘I don’t know how you can possibly think that a young girl like my Cora could’ve had anything to do with a murder.’
Hardcastle told Utting the details of the murder at Victoria Station, and about Nash pretending to be a North Staffordshire officer. ‘And so you see, Mr Utting, when we found the uniform of an officer of that regiment in your daughter’s wardrobe there had to be some explanation of how it got there. To my mind there is only one explanation.’
‘Well, I’ve no idea where it came from,’ said Utting, his fury slowly abating in the face of Hardcastle’s irrefutable account of the facts surrounding Somers’ murder.
‘Did Adrian Nash visit your house often, Mr Utting?’ asked Marriott.
‘Yes, as often as his duties would allow. As my daughter told you, he was in training at Aldershot, but he seemed to get home almost every weekend.’ There was an element of resentment in Utting’s voice; it was clear that he thought there was a set of privileges for officers that were not extended to other ranks, of which he had been one.
‘But you said that he was stationed at Hounslow, Mr Utting,’ said Hardcastle.
‘That’s where I thought he was. At least that’s what he told me. But now Cora’s telling you something different.’ Utting sighed; he was having difficulty in understanding it all. But he was slowly beginning to realize that Adrian Nash was not the upstanding, unblemished young man he thought he was. And he had rapidly changed his mind about his suitability as a match for Cora, not that that was any longer a consideration.
‘Were you aware of him bringing any luggage with him when he came for the weekend?’ Hardcastle asked.
‘He usually had a small suitcase; a valise he called it,’ Utting added with a contemptuous sniff. ‘We’d put him up in the spare bedroom. He seemed to be such a nice young lad that I can’t believe that he’s a murderer. It just goes to show that you can never tell.’
‘Did perhaps your wife notice whether—?’
But Utting broke into Marriott’s question. ‘My wife died some six months ago of the consumption, Sergeant,’ said Utting.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Marriott.
‘I won’t detain you any longer, Mr Utting,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott stood up. ‘You’ll be wanting to get Cora home.’
‘Well, what d’you think?’ asked Hardcastle, after Marriott had returned from escorting William Utting, and his daughter, to the door of the police station.
‘I think Cora’s probably right when she said she didn’t know anything about the uniform or the murders, sir,’ said Marriott, repeating what the DDI had said earlier. ‘She didn’t strike me as being particularly bright.’
‘Maybe,’ said Hardcastle doubtfully. ‘But I suppose it’s possible that Nash put it in her bedroom wardrobe without her knowledge, or, as she said, she did know but believed it to be his uniform.’
‘There was another thing, sir. Although the collar badges were of the North Staffords
hire Regiment, the buttons on the uniform we found were Army Service Corps.’
‘So the young bugger used his own uniform, Marriott.’
‘Looks that way, sir.’
‘I’m surprised you didn’t notice that at the time, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Being as how you’re so knowledgeable about all things to do with the army. Anyway, first thing tomorrow morning, we’ll go and see Adrian Nash’s parents again.’
‘Tomorrow’s Sunday, sir,’ said Marriott, suffering Hardcastle’s rebuke without comment.
‘So it is, Marriott.’
‘Don’t you think we ought to tell Colonel Frobisher first that we’ve arrested Nash, sir? He is a deserter, after all.’
‘What on a Sunday?’ said Hardcastle, conjuring up an expression of surprise. ‘Don’t be silly, Marriott. Whatever gave you the idea that Colonel Frobisher would work on a Sunday? Anyway, we haven’t finished here yet. Time we had a go at Jack Utting.’
‘I’ll get him brought up, sir,’ said Marriott, and departed to arrange for Utting to be put in the interview room.
When Hardcastle joined the two of them, Utting was lounging in his chair smoking a cigarette.
‘Well, Utting, Adrian Nash has cooked your goose for you good and proper.’ The DDI took a seat opposite Utting and lit his pipe while he allowed that falsehood to sink in.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Utting, but the expression on his face showed that he had clearly been worried by Hardcastle’s opening statement.
‘It’s no good you beating about the bush, my lad.’ Hardcastle dropped his spent match into the tin lid that served as an ashtray. ‘You see, Nash has admitted it all, and told me about your part in it.’
Marriott, who of course, had been present when Hardcastle had questioned Nash, was amazed, yet again, at his chief’s interrogation technique. Nash had said nothing about Jack Utting, much less had he involved him in the murder of Herbert Somers. But Hardcastle had made his allegation with a confidence that brooked no argument.
‘I only told him about the exchange bureau at Victoria, and how it operated,’ said Utting. ‘I didn’t know he was going to do a murder.’
Hardcastle scoffed. ‘He didn’t know, Marriott,’ he said, in an aside to his sergeant. ‘What did you think he was going to do, then, Utting? Admire the view, perhaps? Or was he going to write a book about the experiences of soldiers trying to change their francs for pounds. You’ll have to do better than that.’
‘He said he was going to rob the clerk.’
‘Oh, so that’s all right, is it? That lets you off the hook. Don’t talk daft, lad. You’re in this over your head, and you’d best tell me what took place. If you want to save your neck from being stretched by His Majesty’s hangman early one morning at Wormwood Scrubs, that is.’
Jack Utting’s face paled dramatically, and he gripped the edge of the table so hard that his fingers were white. ‘I never knew he was going to kill poor old Bert Somers, Inspector, honest.’ The prospect of finishing up on the gallows had terrified the former bank clerk. ‘I wouldn’t have told him anything otherwise.’
‘I’m waiting.’ Hardcastle leaned back in his chair, and linked his hands across his waistcoat.
‘It was being made an officer that did it,’ began Utting. ‘He ran up an awful lot of debts. He told me that being an officer he had to spend money on drinks in the officers’ mess, and buy extra uniform, and all that sort of thing. And him and all the other officers would go up to London on a Friday to see a show, or go to some nightclub. And he said that he took a showgirl to supper a couple of times. It all costs money, you see.’
‘Quite the toff, your brother-in-law to be, ain’t he?’ observed Hardcastle.
‘So how much was this debt?’ asked Marriott.
Utting switched his gaze to Hardcastle’s assistant. ‘He reckoned he was in Queer Street to the tune of two hundred quid.’
‘Two hundred!’ exclaimed Hardcastle in amazement. ‘That’s half what I earn in a year.’
‘Well, that’s how much he said it was,’ admitted Utting.
‘I see. So he decided to carry out a robbery, did he?’
‘Yes, but he never meant to hurt anyone.’
‘Is that why he had a revolver with him, Utting?’ scoffed Hardcastle. ‘What was he going to do, wave it at Somers and say, “Give me the money”? You must be even more simple than I thought in the first place. And so must Nash.’
‘And that’s why you took the day off, was it?’ asked Marriott. ‘Because you knew that Nash was going to rob the booth on that day.’
‘Yes.’ Utting mumbled the word, and looked down at the table.
‘Well, that’s conspiracy to rob, if not to murder,’ said Marriott. ‘Don’t you agree, sir?’ he asked, turning to the DDI.
‘Without a doubt, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘And how much was it that he nicked?’
Marriott referred briefly to his pocket book. ‘According to Mr Richards, the bank manager, some three hundred pounds was taken.’
‘I see. So he took an extra hundred against future out-goings, I suppose,’ said Hardcastle sarcastically. ‘But he didn’t, did he, Utting, because he gave you that extra money?’
‘I, er … well—’
‘It’s no good shilly-shallying, Utting,’ put in Hardcastle. ‘Nash told me all about it. But I want to hear it from you.’ Once again, the DDI made a statement that sounded positive, but was without any foundation.
‘Yes, he gave me fifty quid.’
‘Make a note of that, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, and returned his attention to the prisoner. ‘Where did the uniform come from?’
‘Uniform? What uniform?’
Hardcastle smote the tabletop with the flat of his hand, and Utting jerked back in alarm. ‘Don’t bugger me about, lad. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. How did Nash know to get himself all dressed up as Lieutenant Geoffrey Mansfield, eh?’
‘My Nancy is Geoffrey’s sister,’ said Utting miserably.
‘Yes, I know that. And your sister Cora is Nash’s fiancée. So which one of you provided Nash with the information, eh?’
‘It was Nancy. Adrian asked her what regiment Geoffrey was in, and she told him he was in the North Staffordshires. But she didn’t know why he wanted to know. She just thought he was interested in Geoff.’
‘And she told him what the badges looked like, I suppose,’ suggested Marriott.
‘She didn’t have to. Adrian knew already, and he went to some uniform shop in Aldershot, and bought the badges. Oh, and the medal ribbons. He’s got an MC, has Geoff. Then he decked up one of his own uniforms to look like Geoff’s. He said that if he got caught running away, he’d say he was chasing after the man that did it. But apparently, a copper came on the scene almost as soon as Adrian had knocked over poor old Bert. So he couldn’t leg it. It would’ve looked suspicious, so he said.’
‘So the cheeky bugger waited, and then told me some fanny about a soldier who hadn’t saluted him, and had done a runner.’ Ever since he had discovered the true identity of the officer he had spoken to, Hardcastle had been furious that he had allowed himself to be deceived by a nineteen-year-old newly commissioned army officer. Furthermore, after murdering Herbert Somers, Nash then had the audacity to go on to murder a prostitute at Kingston. ‘What about the cap, and the other bits of uniform he stole from soldiers at Aldershot?’ The DDI was now in no doubt that Nash had been the thief.
‘He said that he’d leave the cap in the booth to throw the police off the scent. I s’pose he must’ve forgotten in all the panic of having killed old Bert. He never meant to do that. And I think he pinched the other stuff because his first idea was to pretend to be an ordinary soldier. But then he changed his mind, and said that he wouldn’t be stopped by the military rozzers if he was in officer’s uniform.’
‘I strikes me that your friend Adrian is not the brightest of men,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’ve never heard such a daft tale in all my l
ife.’
‘If he hadn’t gone to all that trouble,’ said Utting, ‘I s’pose he’d’ve got away with it.’
Hardcastle fixed Utting with a withering gaze. ‘You think so, do you, Utting? Well, I’ll tell you this: from the very moment he struck Mr Somers on the head, he’d assured himself of a trip to the scaffold. Because with me dealing with it, he’d’ve stood no chance. And you’ll likely be joining him.’
Utting gulped at the prospect of being hanged, but before he could respond, another question was fired at him.
‘What d’you know about the prostitute he murdered?’ asked Marriott.
‘Prostitute?’ Utting sounded genuinely surprised by that. ‘I read about that in the paper. Was that really him?’ he said. ‘What did he do?’
‘He stole a van, picked up a prostitute in Kingston, and murdered her,’ said Marriott. ‘And he stole the keys to the lock-up from a poor private soldier who was supposed to be in his care at Aldershot.’
‘Whatever did he do that for? He must’ve gone mad if he picked up a pro, and then topped her.’
‘Maybe,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but if he’s thinking of pleading guilty but insane, he’s got another thing coming. By the way, where did he stay all the time he was on the run?’
There was a long pause before Utting replied, but Hardcastle had guessed the answer anyway.
‘At my place.’
‘I hope he helped you to move house,’ said Hardcastle sarcastically. The DDI stood up, but he had not finished yet. ‘Put him down, Marriott, and get Nash up to the interview room. We’ll see what he’s got to say about the murder of Ivy Huggins.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott, glancing briefly at his wristwatch. It was now almost midnight, but once Hardcastle got going, he paid no attention to the time. ‘But that’s Mr Fitnam’s job. Shouldn’t we let him interview Nash about that?’
‘I’m sure Mr Fitnam won’t mind me clearing up his murder for him, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, rubbing his hands together. ‘After all, the two are connected.’
‘It seems that you were two hundred pounds in debt, Nash.’