Hardcastle's Soldiers

by Graham Ison

  ‘Because I charged him with the murder of Herbert Somers at Victoria Station, and I also charged him with the murder of Ivy Huggins on your toby, Arthur. So I suggest you start putting your case together. And get the mothballs out of your Old Bailey suit, ready for an appearance at the Central Criminal Court. You do know where the Old Bailey is, don’t you, Arthur?’ Hardcastle added impishly. ‘If not I’ll send you a map.’

  ‘How the hell did you manage that, Ernie?’ Fitnam’s voice suddenly took on a brighter note.

  ‘Good old-fashioned police work, Arthur. I talked to him like a Dutch uncle, and he confessed. We do a lot of that up here in the centre of the great Metropolis.’

  ‘Well, I’m very grateful,’ said Fitnam.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it, Arthur. And I reckon your gratitude would be best shown by a bottle of Scotch. I’m rather partial to Johnny Walker’s Black Label. It’ll only set you back about five shillings.’

  ‘It’s as good as done, Ernie,’ said Fitnam who, after replacing the receiver, let out a loud whoop of delight, much to the astonishment of the detectives in the next office.

  Hardcastle next decided to pay a visit to Colonel Frobisher, the assistant provost marshal.

  ‘Good morning to you, Inspector,’ said Frobisher. ‘I’m glad you’ve dropped in. I’ve got some more news for you. Second Lieutenant Bertram Morrish has finally turned up at 233 Supply Company ASC in Fort William. It seems he was mistakenly sent to 232 Supply in Taunton, Somerset. They tried to hold on to him, but eventually the records office made sure he went to the right place. But these things happen. However, I’ve no news yet of Adrian Nash who should’ve gone to 143 Mechanical Transport Company in Boulogne.’

  ‘Ah, but I have, Colonel,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Which is why I’m here. I thought I’d let you know that I’ve captured him for you.’

  Frobisher looked up with an amused smile on his face. ‘So you’ve found him, have you? And how did that come about?’

  ‘He made the mistake of loosing off a few rounds at some of my policemen in Francis Street last Friday night. He was promptly arrested, and I’ve got him locked up in Brixton police station charged with two counts of murder.’

  ‘Have you, by Jove? Did he kill some of your policemen, then?’ Frobisher had read an account of the Francis Street incident in The Times, but no mention had been made of fatalities.

  ‘No, he was arrested without anyone being hurt. And while I’m at it, I’d like to mention the part played in the siege by Colour-Sergeant Cecil Berryman of the Middlesex Regiment who volunteered to resolve the matter for us.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He was instrumental in wounding our man with a carefully aimed rifle shot, thereby enabling police to make an arrest. I thought he deserved some sort of commendation.’

  ‘I think the less said about that the better, Inspector. I gather from what you say, that he acted without authority from a superior officer. An army officer, I mean.’

  ‘Police can call on anyone to assist them in arresting a felon, Colonel,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Yes, that’s as maybe, but I still think it’s best forgotten. You see there’ll be all sorts of questions asked, like where did he get the ammunition from, and how he is to account for it. Once the military machine gets going on that sort of thing, Mr Hardcastle, it’s very difficult to stop it.’ Frobisher shook his head apologetically. ‘Your people aren’t going to do anything silly, like submitting official reports, are they?’

  ‘I’ll make sure they don’t, Colonel. Wouldn’t want to get Berryman into any trouble.’ Hardcastle was somewhat surprised at the colonel’s reaction. The colour-sergeant had done a first-class job in assisting the police, but now the army did not want to know because of some pettifogging regulation. In that respect the army was not unlike the police force, and if his part in the incident became known, it was possible that Berryman could finish up being court-martialled for his actions.

  ‘Now, to return to Second Lieutenant Nash. Who exactly is he charged with murdering?’ asked the APM.

  ‘I’ve charged him with murdering Herbert Somers, the cashier at the Victoria Station exchange booth that you know about, and, on behalf of the DDI on V Division, with the murder of a prostitute called Ivy Huggins at Kingston upon Thames.’

  ‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Frobisher. ‘This war has produced some unlikely murderers, Inspector. I suppose you’ve no idea when he’ll be appearing in court.’ The APM pulled a writing pad across his desk ready to make a few notes.

  ‘I took him before the Bow Street magistrate this morning and got an eight-day lay down.’

  ‘A what?’ Frobisher looked up. Despite being a senior army policeman, he still had trouble with some of Hardcastle’s jargon.

  ‘A remand in custody for eight days, Colonel,’ volunteered Marriott.

  ‘I see.’ Frobisher made a further note, and leaned back in his chair. ‘D’you think there’s any doubt about his guilt, Inspector?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Hardcastle firmly. ‘He’s as guilty as hell.’

  ‘I thought you’d say that.’ Frobisher knew Hardcastle well, and knew that he rarely made mistakes. ‘Once he’s convicted, I’ll arrange to have him cashiered.’

  ‘What’s the point of that?’ asked Hardcastle, once again bemused by the army’s slavish adherence to King’s Regulations. ‘He’s going down.’

  ‘Keeps it all neat and tidy, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Frobisher.

  As the two detectives were returning to Cannon Row Police Station, Hardcastle saw a barrel organ being played near the Red Lion pub on the corner of Derby Gate.

  ‘Good God, Marriott!’ exclaimed Hardcastle loudly. ‘A barrel organ in Whitehall. I’ve never seen such a thing. Whatever next?’ But as he drew closer, he saw that the organ was in the charge of a one-legged man with a row of medals who was leaning on a crutch. He was operating the organ with his free hand. A small monkey wearing a red waistcoat sat atop the organ.

  Hardcastle paused, and tossed a sixpence into the man’s cap that was on the pavement.

  ‘Bless you, guv’nor.’ The organ grinder touched his forehead with a calloused finger. The monkey bared its teeth at Hardcastle.

  Having informed the army of what had happened to Nash, in itself a cause of great self-satisfaction, Hardcastle decided that it was time to interview Jack Utting again.

  Once again in the gloomy interview room at the police station, the DDI settled himself in a chair opposite the unfortunate Utting. DS Marriott sat beside him, ready to take notes. But, in the event, there were not many notes to be taken.

  ‘When I last spoke to you, Utting, you told me that you were instrumental in giving Adrian Nash information about Lieutenant Mansfield’s uniform, information you’d obtained from your wife. You also told Nash about the routine at the money-changing kiosk at Victoria Station that he intended to rob. For your assistance in this matter you received the princely sum of fifty pounds from the proceeds of the robbery and murder.’

  ‘But I didn’t know he was going to kill Bert Somers,’ responded Utting in anguished tones.

  ‘You knew he intended to rob Somers, and you aided and abetted him. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that you conspired with him.’ Hardcastle stood up. ‘Consequently, I shall charge you with conspiracy to commit murder, Utting.’

  ‘But I didn’t know he was going to kill Bert Somers,’ implored Utting, now terrified that, like Nash, he too could soon have an appointment with the hangman.

  ‘Bit late to think about that now, my lad,’ said Hardcastle brutally. ‘Somers was murdered, and that’s it and all about it. You’ll hang alongside your sister’s fiancé.’

  The trial of Adrian Nash and Jack Utting took place at the Central Criminal Court at Old Bailey some months later amid the full panoply of the law.

  ‘The Director of Public Prosecutions got cold feet over Utting, Marriott,’ whispered Hardcastle, as he, his sergeant, and DDI Fitnam sat down in the entrance
hall outside the four courts that the building contained. As witnesses they were not allowed in court until their turn came to give evidence.

  ‘How so, sir?’

  ‘He was happy to charge him with conspiracy to rob, but didn’t think we’d got enough to put him on the sheet for conspiracy to murder. He said that Utting only agreed to rob, not to murder. Personally I’d’ve given it a run, but there we are.’

  ‘But couldn’t we have put him up for conspiracy to murder anyway, sir?’

  Hardcastle sighed. ‘You should know by now, Marriott, that the DPP has to approve murder cases, and without that approval there ain’t a case. And he’s not indicting Nash with robbery, or with attempting to murder PC Wallis. He said there was no point, and I agree with him.’

  Inside the courtroom, there was a sudden rustle of activity as the red-robed judge – who enjoyed the splendid title of the Common Serjeant of London – entered, and took his place on the bench. The usher intoned the time-honoured catechism for the commencement of the proceedings, including such obscure words as ‘oyer and terminer and general gaol delivery’, the meaning of which, and the reason for, were lost on the accused, the public high in the gallery, and even on some of the junior barristers in the well of the court.

  The clerk rose and read the counts of the indictments against Nash and Utting. ‘Adrian Nash, you are charged with the murders of Herbert Somers on Wednesday the eleventh of July at Victoria in the County of Middlesex, of Ivy Huggins on Wednesday the eleventh, or Thursday the twelfth, of July at Kingston upon Thames in the County of Surrey, each in the year of Our Lord one thousand, nine hundred and seventeen. Against the Peace. How say you? Guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘Not guilty, sir,’ said Nash, straining to make his voice heard.

  And so it went on. Utting pleaded not guilty to conspiracy to rob, and the prisoners were told to sit down.

  Once the jury had been empanelled, Sir Robert Winter – a distinguished King’s Counsel – rose from the front bench, and took a sip of water. ‘My Lord, I appear for the prosecution in this case, and my learned friend Sir Richard Strong appears for the defence.’ Winter spoke in a strong and confident voice.

  Those formal introductions made, Winter began to outline the case against both the accused. He made great play of the fact that Nash held the King’s Commission, but had got himself into debt, a situation, he suggested, entirely of his own making, and had sought to resolve those debts by the murder of an innocent bank clerk.

  Winter took another sip of water. And then, he continued, not satisfied with that, Nash decided to spend some of his ill-gotten gains on the services of a prostitute, but, for reasons that will be made clear later in the trial, he murdered her.

  As for Utting, he said, almost contemptuously, he was merely an opportunist who saw what he thought was a safe way to obtain money without any risk to himself. But in that he was mistaken.

  One by one, a string of prosecution witnesses entered the box: Dr Bernard Spilsbury, DDI Hardcastle, DDI Fitnam, DS Marriott and DI Charles Collins among them. Over the next days, each was examined in chief, cross-examined and, in one or two cases, re-examined.

  At the beginning of the third week, Sir Richard Strong – a KC of equal eminence as his opponent – opened the case for the defence, such as it was; his vast experience, and an examination of the evidence, had already told him that he had little chance of success. After taking a pinch of snuff, something he was to do at intervals throughout the trial, he suggested to the jury of twelve stern-looking gentlemen landowners that Adrian Nash was a weak-willed young man who had been misled by other, more mature, men to spend more than he was worth. The outcome of this was that he saw fit to devise a way in which to settle his debts.

  Failure to do so, continued counsel, was to risk the dishonour of being cashiered from the army. However, what began as a robbery, resulted in the death of the cashier Herbert Somers who, not unnaturally, had resisted, and paid for that resistance with his life.

  Sir Richard Strong then drew the attention of the jury to the fact that it was within their power to bring in a verdict of manslaughter should they believe that there was no intention to murder. But Strong knew that it was a legal nicety, and would be made meaningless by the death of Ivy Huggins, which did not warrant a verdict of manslaughter.

  After this untenable plea, Sir Richard began to call the first of a precious few witnesses, none of whom was of any real help to his case. But he wisely decided not to call either Nash or Utting to testify in his own defence.

  It was to no avail. At the end of the fourth week, the jury returned a guilty verdict in respect of all the counts on each of the indictments against both the accused.

  The Common Serjeant donned the black cap, and peered closely at Nash. ‘Adrian Nash, you have been found guilty of the crimes of murder, most heinous crimes. Without regard to anything but your own self-interest, you wilfully murdered Herbert Somers, a man going about his lawful occasions and, as if that were not sufficient, you then went on to murder a defenceless prostitute. The sentence of this court is that you shall be taken from this place to the place from whence you came, and thence to a place of lawful execution. After three Sundays have elapsed you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead.’

  The judge’s chaplain intoned a few pointless words beseeching the Almighty to have mercy on the prisoner’s soul, and it was over.

  The judge looked at Nash again. ‘Take him down,’ he said.

  The near-collapsing and sobbing figure of Adrian Nash was half-carried down the steps from the dock by two stalwart prison warders. Within the hour he was in the condemned cell at Wormwood Scrubs prison.

  That done, the judge turned his attention to Jack Utting, but wasted few words on him. ‘You are a man of previous good character,’ he said, ‘and for that reason I am inclined to treat you more leniently than otherwise I would have done. You are sentenced to ten years penal servitude for conspiracy to rob. Take him down.’

  Immediately after Nash had been removed to the cells beneath the courtroom, and unbeknown to Hardcastle, a small drama was played out there. Lieutenant Colonel Ralph Frobisher appeared in Nash’s cell.

  ‘Adrian Nash,’ he said, ‘I am serving you with a notice stating that you are hereby cashiered from the army.’ Somewhat pointlessly, but as a military requirement, he added, ‘You may appeal if you wish.’

  ‘Serve the buggers right,’ said Hardcastle, as he led the way across the road to the Magpie and Stump public house where, with uncharacteristic generosity, he bought beer for Arthur Fitnam, Charlie Collins and Charles Marriott.

  It was a cold, dank morning in December when the hangman entered the condemned cell. With a speed born of years of experience, he quickly pinioned Nash’s arms. In less than a minute, the condemned man was hustled through a door, and on to the trap. His legs were secured, and a hood placed over his head. Seconds later Adrian Nash was consigned to oblivion.

  At five minutes to eight that same morning, in a small villa in Eddystone Road, Brockley, Reginald and Rose Simmons – they had changed their name from Nash, and moved house – had been sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea. As the long-case clock in the hall struck eight o’clock, Rose burst into tears.

  The thick fog had lasted all night, and refused to lift even in the face of a watery sun. But the miserable weather had not prevented the usual crowd of ghoulish sightseers, their coat collars turned up, from gathering at the gates of Wormwood Scrubs prison.

  At ten minutes past eight, a warder appeared and placed a black-framed notice on the wicket gate. It announced that penalty of death by hanging had been carried out on one Adrian Nash. According to the law.

  It was fast approaching Christmas. Holding a newspaper, Marriott tapped on the DDI’s door and entered.

  ‘What is it, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘I wondered if you’d seen this report in the paper about the bomb that fell in Acre Lane yesterday morning, sir.’

  ‘A
cre Lane in Clapham?’ Hardcastle took off his spectacles and paid attention. ‘What about it? Sit down and read it.’

  Marriott took a seat, and turned to the page containing the report. ‘It’s only a short piece, sir. “At a quarter past ten yesterday morning,”’ he read, ‘“German raiders launched an attack on South London. A house in Acre Lane, Clapham received a direct hit resulting in the death of the two occupants, a Mr William Utting and his daughter Cora.” Then there’s a piece about Jack Utting’s part in the Victoria Station murder, sir.’

  ‘He was the chap who lost an arm at the Somme, wasn’t he?’ asked Hardcastle, as he stood up.

  ‘That’s him, sir, and his leg was badly damaged at the same time.’

  ‘Looks as though Fritz was determined to get him, doesn’t it, Marriott?’ Hardcastle took out his watch, glanced at it, and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket. ‘I think I fancy a pint,’ he said. ‘If you’re buying, Marriott.’

  GLOSSARY

  ACK EMMA: signallers’ code for a.m. (cf PIP EMMA.)

  ALL MY EYE AND BETTY MARTIN: nonsense.

  APM: assistant provost marshal (a lieutenant colonel of the military police).

  BAILEY, the: Central Criminal Court, Old Bailey, London.

  BEAK: a magistrate.

  BEF: British Expeditionary Force in France and Flanders.

  BLIGHTY ONE: a battle wound that necessitated repatriation to the UK.

  BOCHE: derogatory term for Germans, particularly soldiers.

  BOOZER: a public house.

  BRIEF, a: a warrant or a police warrant card or a lawyer.

  CHOKEY: a prison (ex Hindi).

  CID: Criminal Investigation Department.

  CIGS: Chief of the Imperial General Staff.

  COPPER: a policeman.

  CRIMED: military slang for receiving punishment.

  DABS: fingerprints.

  DDI: Divisional Detective Inspector.

  DRUM: a dwelling house.

  DUTCH UNCLE, to talk to like a: to talk to in a kindly fashion.

  EARWIGGING: listening.