Hardcastle's Soldiers

by Graham Ison

  Adrian Nash managed a sneer. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Your mate Jack Utting. He’s told us the whole story, and he dropped you right in it. Apparently you’ve been living the high life ever since you were commissioned.’

  ‘Some mate he turned out to be,’ said Nash.

  ‘Now, what about Ivy Huggins?’

  ‘Who’s Ivy Huggins?’

  ‘She’s the prostitute you murdered in Kingston, the same day that you did for Bert Somers.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Nash loftily.

  Hardcastle leaned closer to the prisoner. ‘The army might’ve been stupid enough to make you an officer, Nash, but underneath that uniform you’re just a water board clerk. The only reason that I can think of is that the average life of a subaltern on the Western Front is about six months, so they’ve got to keep filling up the vacancies. But you needn’t worry about that because you’re going to hang.’

  Nash was petrified at Hardcastle’s mention of a hanging; he had spent the time since his arrest hoping that he might still come up with a way of avoiding the consequence of his crimes. ‘I don’t know anything about this Ivy woman you’re talking about.’

  ‘Just because the army was daft enough to give a nineteen-year-old kid like you an officer’s uniform, Nash, won’t stop a judge sentencing you to take the drop at eight o’clock one fine morning. Let me put it to you in simple terms. After murdering Mr Somers, you went down to Kingston and used Private Stacey’s keys – which you’d stolen from his barrack room – to gain admittance to the garage where the baker’s van was kept. Presumably to celebrate your theft of three hundred quid you then picked up a prostitute, and you murdered her. And it’s no good denying it because your fingerprints were found in the van, and on the knife that you used to kill the woman. But what interests me is why you should’ve killed her.’

  Nash slumped in his chair as the realization dawned upon him that he had nowhere to run. ‘She knew about the money.’

  ‘How did she know?’

  ‘After I’d picked her up, she wanted the money in advance. I took out this roll of notes to pay her, and she suddenly said, “It was you, wasn’t it?” I asked her what she meant, and she said I’d killed the bank clerk at Victoria Station. She said she’d read about it in the evening paper. I told her that I was a witness, but she didn’t believe it. She said she’d been with army officers before, and they never had that much money.’

  ‘And I suppose you were still stupid enough to be wearing your uniform, were you?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Yes, I’d gone straight to Kingston. I couldn’t go home because my folks would wonder what I was doing there when I should’ve been in Boulogne.’

  ‘As a matter of interest, Nash, where did you stay while you were on the run?’ But Hardcastle knew; Utting had told him.

  Nash came rapidly to the conclusion that as Jack Utting had apparently ratted on him, he would do the same for Utting. ‘I stayed at Jack Utting’s place.’

  ‘So the night you started shooting at my policemen in Francis Street, you’d been there all the time, had you? And Utting’s story that you’d just called at the house when a policeman came to the door was all my eye and Betty Martin.’ To his annoyance Hardcastle realized that when he and Marriott had visited Jack Utting’s house, and detained him, they had not bothered to search the rest of the house. And Nash was probably in another room.

  ‘Of course it was, but Jack didn’t want to get involved.’

  Hardcastle laughed. ‘Well, he’s left it a bit late for that. Right, Nash, you’ll be charged with the murder of Herbert Somers and Ivy Huggins.’ He turned to his sergeant. ‘Put him down, Marriott.’

  ‘I hope they’re not churchgoers,’ said Hardcastle, as he rang the bell of the Nashes’ house in Stanstead Road, Forest Hill on the Sunday morning.

  The man who answered the door was probably in his mid-forties. For a moment or two, he gazed at the two detectives. ‘Yes, what is it? I hope you’re not some of those people who call at houses preaching religion.’

  ‘We’re police officers, sir. I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott. Mr Reginald Nash, is it?’

  ‘Yes. What’s wrong? Is it young Adrian? He’s not dead, is he?’ Nash took hold of the door jamb for support.

  Not yet, thought Hardcastle. ‘No, sir, he isn’t. However, there are some matters I wish to discuss with you.’

  ‘You’d better come in.’ Nash opened the door wide, and escorted the two detectives into the parlour.

  Mrs Nash appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh, you’re here again,’ she said, recognizing the two officers, and followed them into the room. ‘It’s not about Adrian, is it?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but he’s quite safe, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

  ‘Well, what is it about?’ asked Reginald Nash, as he invited the detectives to sit down.

  ‘I’ve come to inform you that your son Adrian Nash is presently in custody at Cannon Row Police Station, and will shortly be charged with two counts of murder.’

  ‘Murder?’ Rose Nash paled significantly and leaned back against the cushions of her armchair, almost in a faint. ‘There must be some mistake,’ she mumbled.

  ‘This is nonsense,’ said Reginald Nash. ‘Adrian’s an officer in the army, and he’s serving on the Western Front.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it, Mr Nash. He’s made a full confession. Your son never arrived at his unit in Boulogne, and has been posted as a deserter.’

  ‘But we saw him off at Waterloo Station at the beginning of this month. The fifth it was, a Thursday evening. Isn’t that right, Rose?’ he asked, turning to his prostrate wife, but received only an incomprehensible mumble in reply.

  ‘You may have seen him off, Mr Nash,’ said Marriott, ‘but I doubt that he boarded the train. Or if he did, then he got off at some station before Southampton. Either that, or he reached his destination, turned round and came straight back again.’

  ‘Good God Almighty!’ exclaimed Nash. ‘But what are these murders he’s supposed to have committed?’

  ‘I shall be charging him with the murder of a bank clerk at Victoria Station on the eleventh of July,’ said Hardcastle. He paused. ‘And a prostitute at Kingston upon Thames later the same day, or early the next.’

  ‘A prostitute?’ exclaimed Rose Nash, as she recovered herself. ‘I don’t believe it. In fact, I don’t believe any of it. He’s an officer in the army.’

  ‘I can quite understand your disbelief, Mrs Nash,’ said Hardcastle patiently, ‘but it happens to be the truth.’ It was not the first time that the DDI had come across a mother who, when faced with overwhelming evidence, maintained an inflexible faith in the probity of her children.

  ‘Would it be possible to see our son, Inspector?’ asked Nash quietly. Adrian’s father seemed to have accepted the state of affairs more readily than his wife.

  ‘Not until he’s appeared before the magistrate, Mr Nash. Now then, I have a warrant to search these premises.’ Hardcastle took a sheet of paper from his pocket, examined it, and then returned it. Only he knew it was a gas bill that had been delivered to his house yesterday morning. ‘However, rather than formally execute this document,’ he said, tapping his pocket, ‘I’d prefer to have your co-operation. We don’t wish to appear heavy-handed about this matter, do we?’

  Marriott gasped inwardly at his DDI’s sheer effrontery. He knew that Hardcastle did not have a warrant, and that neither he nor the DDI would have been able to obtain one in the short time available to them. Not without disturbing a magistrate at home, and in the middle of the night. And that was never a wise thing to do.

  ‘Of course, Inspector,’ said Nash wearily, ‘although I don’t know what you expect to find.’

  ‘As I think I made clear, sir,’ said Hardcastle, rising from his seat, ‘we don’t want to seem tactless.
Just a look at your son’s room will suffice. As a matter of interest, when was your son last here?’

  ‘A few days before we saw him off. We haven’t seen him since, obviously. But then we believed him to be in France.’

  Leaving his distressed wife on the sofa, Nash led the way upstairs. ‘This is Adrian’s room,’ he said, opening a door. ‘I don’t really know what’s happened to the lad. He had a promising career ahead of him at the Metropolitan Water Board. I’ve worked there all my life, and I’d hoped that Adrian would do the same. It’s this wretched war, Inspector. It’s upset everyone.’

  ‘Very true, sir,’ said Hardcastle, not that he could see how the war could be used as an excuse for young Nash to commit two murders.

  Adrian Nash’s room was neat and tidy, the bed made, and the furniture polished.

  ‘It’s exactly as he left it, Inspector,’ said Nash.

  Hardcastle remained just inside the door, and signalled to Marriott to see what he could find. He knew what they were looking for, and it did not take long.

  Marriott opened the chest of drawers, and ferreted around. ‘I think this is what we’re after, sir,’ he said, holding up a pair of army trousers and a tunic.

  ‘You’ve got the numbers that those lads at Aldershot gave you, Marriott, haven’t you?’ said Hardcastle. ‘See if they match. Unless I’m very much mistaken, that’ll be Private Ash’s tunic, and Private Joliffe’s trousers.’

  Even after years working with the DDI, Marriott could still be surprised at his chief’s oft-disguised prodigious memory for detail.

  Reginald Nash stood in the doorway, clearly bewildered by this cryptic conversation. ‘Is there something wrong, Inspector?’ he asked.

  Hardcastle waited until Marriott had confirmed that the clothing was indeed marked with the regimental numbers of the soldiers he had named.

  ‘Yes, Mr Nash. Those items of military clothing that Sergeant Marriott found were stolen from soldiers under training at Buller Barracks when your son was there. And it looks very much as though your lad nicked ’em. Although quite why he did is a bit of a mystery.’ Hardcastle did not bother to explain that Nash had stolen them with the original intention of masquerading as a private soldier.

  Marriott completed his search of the room, but found nothing more that would further their investigation. Not that he thought they needed any more, but he knew that Hardcastle was a stickler for putting together what he would describe as a ‘gold-plated’ case for the prosecution.

  ‘Thank you for your co-operation, Mr Nash. We’ll not need to trouble you further. Your son will be appearing before the Bow Street magistrate at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. If you care to attend there, it will probably be possible for you to have a few words with him before he’s taken to Brixton Prison.’

  ‘Brixton Prison? But surely, being an officer—’

  ‘He’ll be remanded in custody, Mr Nash, officer or not. Prisoners facing a murder charge don’t get bail,’ said Hardcastle unsympathetically.

  TWENTY

  ‘All rise!’ At ten o’clock precisely on the following Monday morning, the usher in Court Number One at Bow Street Police Court had his moment of glory.

  The Chief Metropolitan Magistrate took his seat on the bench and spent a few moments searching for his pen. He took out his pince-nez and polished them with a red pocket handkerchief. Satisfied, he replaced the handkerchief in his top pocket and clipped his glasses carefully on to his nose before perusing the register.

  Aware that a man accused of murder was to appear, the public section of the courtroom was crowded. There were a few men – mainly Covent Garden layabouts with nothing better to do – but the majority were women who, judging by their fine apparel and their elegant hats, were ladies of substance possessed of a macabre curiosity. After all, it was this very courtroom that had witnessed the initial arraignments of Hawley Harvey Crippen and Ethel Le Neve, George Joseph Smith, and countless other notorious murderers and murderesses.

  ‘Yes?’ Once again, the magistrate adjusted his pince-nez, and glanced first at the clerk, and then down at the register.

  ‘Adrian Nash, Your Worship,’ intoned the clerk. ‘Two counts of murder, and one of attempted murder.’

  ‘Very well.’ The magistrate peered over his spectacles at the young man in the dock.

  ‘Adrian Nash,’ began the clerk in a reedy voice, ‘you are charged with the murder of Herbert Somers on Wednesday the eleventh of July this year, and with the murder of Ivy Huggins on Wednesday the eleventh, or Thursday the twelfth, of July this year. You are further charged with the attempted murder of Police Constable Donald Wallis on Friday the twenty-seventh of July this year. Against the Peace. How do you plead?’

  ‘Not guilty,’ said Nash in a halting and tremulous voice.

  ‘Officer in the case,’ said the clerk, and gazed searchingly around the courtroom.

  The DDI stepped into the witness box. ‘Divisional Detective Inspector Ernest Hardcastle, attached to A Division, Metropolitan Police, Your Worship.’

  ‘Do you have an application, Mr Hardcastle?’ queried the magistrate.

  ‘I respectfully ask for a remand in custody, Your Worship.’

  The magistrate glanced at his register once more, and made an entry. ‘Very well, Mr Hardcastle. Remanded in custody to Tuesday the seventh of August,’ he said. ‘Next.’

  As Nash was taken down, and Hardcastle left the courtroom, a cheeky young prostitute – her breasts almost popping out of the top of her provocative dress – entered the dock, and blew an insolent kiss to the magistrate.

  Hardcastle walked out to the echoing entrance hall of the court. There was a low hubbub of conversation among the people there, but Reginald Nash was sitting silent and alone on one of the benches, his head bowed, and his hands linked loosely between his knees.

  ‘If you care to come with me, Mr Nash, you can have a word with your son.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’ Nash followed the DDI into the dank cell passage that ran alongside Number One Court.

  The miserable figure of Adrian Nash was seated in the holding cell at the end of the passageway near the gaoler’s office. Dressed in an ill-fitting suit, he no longer appeared the suave, dashing officer who had wined and dined ungrateful showgirls during his forays into London with his brother officers.

  ‘Adrian, what the hell have you done?’ Reginald Nash’s face clearly showed his torment. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘No, Pa, I never did these things, not like they’re saying I did,’ said the younger Nash, but the expression on his face belied his reply. And it was clear that he was close to tears.

  ‘D’you mean the police are making it all up?’ Reginald Nash shot a sideways glance of censure at Hardcastle.

  ‘It was all an accident,’ blurted out Adrian. ‘I never meant to kill either of them. It just sort of happened.’

  But it was obvious, in the face of the evidence that had been expounded by Hardcastle on his previous meeting with Reginald Nash, that Adrian’s father had come to the reluctant conclusion that his son had indeed committed the terrible murders with which he had been charged, with – to use the legal term – malice aforethought.

  ‘You had everything, son. You’d even got a commission in the army. Why?’ Adrian’s father shook his head in disbelief and despair, as if asking himself where he had gone wrong in bringing up his only son. ‘Why did you do these terrible things?’

  ‘I’d got into debt, Pa. Two hundred pounds. I needed the money.’

  ‘Two hundred pounds?’ Reginald Nash was shocked, as indeed Hardcastle had been earlier, at the enormity of his son’s indebtedness. ‘You could’ve come to me, son. I’d’ve worked something out. You didn’t have to kill people for it.’ But even as he said it, he realized that there would have been no chance of him amassing so large a sum of money. Not on his pay as a water board engineer.

  ‘Anyway, I couldn’t go to the Front, Pa,’ muttered Adrian, adding another untenable excuse for his condu
ct.

  ‘But you weren’t going to the Front, my boy. You were going to Boulogne. That’s what you said the day we saw you off at Waterloo. You’d’ve been safe there, surely? I don’t know much about the war, but I do know that Boulogne’s quite a way behind the lines.’

  ‘Yes, but that wouldn’t have lasted long, would it? I’d have had to take supplies right up to the front line. That’s what officers are for. A lot of our people have been killed doing that. I just couldn’t face it.’

  ‘Well, it’s no excuse for committing murder,’ said Reginald Nash sharply, his tone of voice indicating that he had finally abandoned his son. ‘All you’ve done is to bring disgrace on your family. Your mother’s quite distraught. We’re going to have to move house because of the shame of it all. Probably change our names, too.’ Following that announcement, which had more to do with his own reputation than with Adrian’s plight, he turned to Hardcastle. ‘I’m ready to leave, Inspector.’

  The DDI escorted Reginald Nash to the front door of the court.

  ‘What will happen to him, Inspector?’

  ‘He’ll hang,’ said Hardcastle bluntly. ‘And if he don’t, the army will shoot him at dawn for cowardice.’

  Reginald Nash said nothing, just shook his head. With that he stepped out into the July sunshine, and with head bowed, walked slowly down Bow Street towards the Strand, a broken man.

  Hardcastle and Marriott were back at Cannon Row by eleven o’clock.

  The DDI always pretended that he was unfamiliar with the telephone, and frequently described it as an invention of the devil that would not last. However, on this occasion, using his own instrument he quickly had the operator connect him to the DDI of V Division at Wandsworth.

  ‘Arthur, it’s Ernest Hardcastle on A.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Ernie?’ asked Fitnam, somewhat wearily.

  ‘It’s rather a case of what I’ve done for you, Arthur. I had a young army officer called Adrian Nash up at Bow Street this morning charged with murder.’

  ‘Congratulations, Ernie,’ said Fitnam, ‘but what’s that got to do with me?’