Hardcastle's Traitors

by Graham Ison

‘I was patrolling my beat in a north-westerly direction, sir—’ the PC began.

  ‘Never mind all that fiddle-faddle, Dodds, you’re not giving evidence now,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Just tell me the story.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was about fifty yards away when I heard someone shouting for police. So I made me way down here a bit swift and come across the broken glass panel in this door, sir, and so I ventured inside.’

  ‘And what did you find when you ventured inside, as you put it, lad?’ demanded Hardcastle sarcastically. He was always impatient when receiving a report from an officer who prevaricated.

  ‘I saw Mr Gosling’s body lying on the floor, sir. I never touched nothing apart from ascertaining that he was dead. Then I shouted for my mate on the adjoining beat, and told him to get assistance from Rochester Row nick, sir. It’s only about five minutes away.’

  ‘For God’s sake, lad, I know where Rochester Row nick is,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir. While I was waiting I had a word with the gent from the outfitters next door. It was him what called me, sir, and he reckoned as how he’d seen a motor vehicle leaving the scene at a fast speed.’

  ‘Did you see this motor vehicle yourself?’

  ‘No, sir. It must’ve made off in the opposite direction. The opposite direction from the one I come from, if you see what I mean, sir.’

  ‘And who is this man?’

  ‘Mr Sidney Partridge, sir,’ said Dodds, quickly referring to his pocketbook.

  Hardcastle grunted and turned to Marriott. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had time to find out what’s been taken yet. But I presume they didn’t leave without helping themselves to the tomfoolery.’

  ‘The glass showcases have been broken into, sir, and they’ve been emptied,’ said Marriott. ‘Quite a haul of jewellery, I’d’ve thought, although they’ve left some cheap stuff behind, along with all of the stuff that had been pledged, as far as I can tell. It seems as though they knew what they were looking for.’

  ‘We’d better take a glim at this here corpse, then.’ Closing his umbrella, Hardcastle pushed open the door with a gloved hand.

  The body of an elderly man lay face down in the centre of the shop floor, arms outstretched, his head a mass of matted blood. He was dressed in striped pyjamas, a dressing gown and slippers. An Ever-Ready electric torch – still switched on – lay close to the man’s right hand, and a pool of his blood had spread across the linoleum-covered floor. But blood had been splashed everywhere: on the front of the counter, on the walls and on the showcases.

  ‘They must’ve given him a good whack, judging by the amount of blood, Marriott. Looks like an abattoir,’ said Hardcastle, hands in pockets as he glanced around. ‘I reckon he disturbed these villains and was bludgeoned on the head for his pains.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott confined himself to a simple answer, as he always did whenever the DDI stated the obvious. ‘I’ve sent for Doctor Spilsbury, sir,’ he said, anticipating the DDI’s next instruction.

  ‘That PC said this man’s name was Gosling.’

  ‘Yes, sir, Reuben Gosling. He’s owned this establishment for nigh on thirty years.’ It was Marriott’s job to possess such local knowledge. ‘He’s a jeweller as well as a pawnbroker.’

  ‘I gathered that from the sign outside,’ said Hardcastle acidly. ‘Is he married?’

  ‘I believe he’s a widower, sir. I had heard that his wife died about ten years ago, but I don’t know for sure.’

  ‘And he lived over the shop, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, sir.

  ‘Where’s this witness Partridge, the one that Dodds mentioned?’

  ‘He lives above the outfitters next door, sir.’

  ‘In that case we’ll have a word with him while we’re waiting for the good doctor to arrive.’ Hardcastle turned to the two DCs. ‘You wait here for Dr Spilsbury. Have a look round and see if you can find anything of importance, but don’t touch it if you do. Understood, Catto?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Catto was an experienced detective and did not need to be told how to conduct himself at the scene of a murder, but for some reason that Catto had never been able to fathom his abilities were always called into question by the DDI.

  The window of the outfitter’s shop next to Gosling’s establishment contained a number of mannequins attired in the latest men’s fashions. Hardcastle looked around the doorway of the shop until he discovered a bell handle high on one side. He pulled at it several times.

  Eventually a window on the floor above the door was flung open and a tousled head appeared.

  ‘Who the devil’s that at this time of the morning disturbing decent folk when they’re trying to get some shut-eye?’ The speaker was clearly in a bad mood.

  ‘Police,’ said Hardcastle, stepping back from the doorway and looking up.

  ‘Oh, right. Hang on, guv’nor.’ The head disappeared and moments later the shop door was opened by a man in a nightshirt over which he wore an overcoat. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know it was you,’ he said. ‘You’d better come inside. It’s a bit of a dirty night out there.’

  Leaving their umbrellas on the step, the two detectives entered the shop and Marriott closed the door.

  ‘You’re Mr Sidney Partridge, I understand,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘That’s me, sir.’ Partridge stood with shoulders slightly rounded and hands clasped together in the manner of the obsequious, mid-fifties, shopkeeper he was.

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division. Are you the owner of this establishment, Mr Partridge?’

  ‘That I am, sir, and any time I can fix you up with a suit, just say the word. At a discount, of course. I’ve a very good selection.’ Partridge made a sweeping motion with a hand, as if to encompass his entire stock.

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Hardcastle, gazing round at the racks of suits, overcoats and other items of apparel that comprised a gentleman’s outfitter’s stock-in-trade. ‘I understand you have some information that might assist me.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if I’ve got anything to tell you that might be of any use, sir. Me and Gladys had toasted the New Year on the stroke of twelve and then we chatted for a bit. It must’ve been about ten past midnight when we decided to turn in. I checked the curtains to make sure they were covering the window, seeing as how the maroons had gone off from the fire station in Greycoat Place about half an hour before. But I knew we had time to spare before those wretched Blimps came right over London. It’s always the same, you see, sir. They set off the warning far too early. The curtains were all right, though; being in the trade, so to speak, I can lay my hands on a good quality twill.’

  ‘But what did you see, Mr Partridge?’ prompted Hardcastle somewhat tetchily, fearing that the outfitter was on the point of embarking on a lengthy monologue about air raids and curtains.

  ‘Well, like I was saying, I happened to look out of the window and I saw these two men – rough-looking blokes they was – come out of Reuben’s shop and jump into a motor car. Then they drove off like the hounds of hell were on their tail. I was pretty sure something had happened, so I opened the window and yelled “Police”, and the officer on the beat came running.’

  ‘Do you know what sort of car it was, Mr Partridge?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘I don’t know much about cars.’ Partridge paused, a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘But I think the one I saw is called a tourer. It was an open car, but it had a hood that was up; one of those canvas things. Oh, and it had them white tyres.’

  ‘White tyres?’ queried Marriott, looking up from his pocketbook.

  ‘Yes, like they have on American cars. You know the sort of thing: painted white round the sides.’

  ‘D’you think it was an American car?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I was watching the two men rather than the car.’

  ‘Motor cars have a number on them. Did you happen to see it?’ asked Marriot
t.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, sir. I never thought of that.’

  ‘What did these men look like?’

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t get a good look at them, what with the street lights being out because of the war. But like I said, they seemed to be rough-looking characters, and they were only wearing jackets and trousers as far as I could see. No overcoats.’ Again Partridge paused. ‘On the other hand, I think one of ’em had one of them reefer jackets on. And they had something round the bottom half of their faces, a scarf possibly. Oh, and they both had cloth caps on, pulled well down over their eyes.’

  ‘Had you heard anything before you saw these men running away?’ asked Hardcastle. ‘The sound of someone breaking in, for instance? Or voices?’

  ‘No. As I said, the wife and me had been having a drink and chatting just before I crossed to check on the curtains, and that the windows were closed on account of the air raid.’

  Hardcastle failed to see the logic of that, but made no comment in case Partridge returned to the subject of air raids and curtains again. ‘Thank you, Mr Partridge,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a great help. I’ll have an officer call round later in the day to take a written statement from you. Unless you’re prepared to make one now.’

  ‘Yes, why not, sir? I doubt I’ll get much sleep tonight. But at least I’ll have a half-day today, it being a Saturday.’

  ‘Get one of those two officers up here to take a statement from Mr Partridge, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘And make it Watkins rather than Catto.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ In Marriott’s view Catto was a good detective and he could never understand why the DDI did not share that opinion. But it was probably because Catto appeared to lose his self-confidence whenever he was in Hardcastle’s presence.

  Returning to Reuben Gosling’s shop, Marriott dispatched Watkins to take Partridge’s statement and then he and Hardcastle began to look around.

  ‘There’s quite a lot of blood on this showcase, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘It’s likely that one of our villains cut himself on the broken glass. And that might mean he wasn’t wearing gloves at the time. Be a good idea to get Mr Collins down here to see if he can find any useful fingerprints.’

  Detective Inspector Charles Stockley Collins was head of the Fingerprint Bureau at Scotland Yard and the comparatively new science of fingerprints had helped to apprehend numerous criminals during the last ten years. Such evidence had first been accepted by the courts in 1905 when the Stratton brothers were convicted of murdering a Deptford oil-shop keeper and his wife.

  The door to Gosling’s shop crashed open and the tall impressive figure of Dr Bernard Spilsbury, attired in full evening dress, stood on the threshold.

  ‘Good evening, my dear Hardcastle. I understand you have a cadaver for me. Ah, yes, I see it.’ Spilsbury glanced at the dead body of Reuben Gosling and rubbed his hands together.

  ‘Indeed I do, Doctor,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But it looks as though we’ve interrupted your celebrations.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, my dear fellow,’ said Spilsbury, handing his Gladstone bag, top hat, cape, and cane to DC Catto. ‘My wife Edith invited all manner of boring people to dinner to celebrate the New Year. To tell the truth, I was delighted to escape.’ Although only thirty-eight years of age, Spilsbury was the foremost forensic pathologist of the period. His evidence at the trial of Hawley Harvey Crippen and Ethel Le Neve in 1910 first brought him to the notice of the public, and whenever he now appeared at the Old Bailey to give evidence, the public gallery was usually full if not overflowing. And six months ago, in the case of the Brides-in-the-Bath murders, he was able to demonstrate precisely how George Joseph Smith had killed his three victims, thus negating defence counsel’s suggestion of accidental death by drowning.

  ‘There’s a bloodstained sash weight over here that I found earlier, sir,’ said Catto. ‘It had rolled underneath that cupboard,’ he added, pointing at a wooden cabinet adjacent to the counter.

  ‘Well done, Constable,’ said Spilsbury. ‘You’ve got a sharp-eyed man there, Hardcastle.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ muttered the DDI.

  Spilsbury knelt down to examine the body of Reuben Gosling. ‘It was undoubtedly the blow to the head that did for him,’ he said, turning his head to address Hardcastle. He pulled an envelope from his inside pocket and rested it on the floor. Using a silver propelling pencil, he made a few notes. ‘Well, that’s all I can do for the time being.’ He stood up and brushed the knees of his trousers.

  ‘There’s a blood stain on one of the showcases, Doctor,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I was wondering if it belongs to one of our killers.’

  ‘I’ll take a sample and analyse it for you,’ said Spilsbury. Taking the necessary equipment from his bag, he scraped a little of the blood on to a slide and placed it in a small glass jar. ‘Get the cadaver to St Mary’s at Paddington, Hardcastle, there’s a good chap, and a prosperous New Year to you and your good lady.’

  ‘And to you, Doctor.’ Hardcastle crossed the shop and opened the door. ‘Catto, the doctor’s hat and cane. Quickly now.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Catto handed the items over and half bowed.

  ‘Well, here’s a pretty kettle of fish, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, sitting down on one of the bentwood chairs that were provided for Gosling’s customers. ‘A couple of burglars who use a car to get away from the scene of their crime. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’

  ‘It looks as though they used the air raid to cover the burglary, sir,’ suggested Marriott.

  ‘Just what I was thinking, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, who had not thought of it until Marriott had mentioned it. ‘And you know what that means, don’t you? It means that they’re probably local. I doubt that anyone would come from out of town on the off chance there was going to be a raid.’

  ‘It might’ve been a coincidence, sir,’ suggested Marriott, changing his mind. But before Hardcastle was able to reply, Watkins reappeared.

  ‘I’ve got Mr Partridge’s statement, sir.’

  ‘I should hope you have, lad. That’s what I sent you up there for. Has he said any more than he told me, I wonder.’ Hardcastle took the statement and glanced through it. ‘Not much good, really, Marriott. He saw a car he couldn’t identify, and the description of the two men he saw could’ve been any one of a hundred.’ He handed the statement back to Watkins. ‘Catto, get hold of a paper bag and wrap up that sash weight. We might get lucky if Mr Collins can find some prints on it.’

  ‘Where can I get a paper bag, sir?’ asked Catto.

  ‘You’re a detective, Catto, find one, and don’t bother me.’ Hardcastle turned back to Marriott. ‘Now all that’s left for us to do is to get the body up to Dr Spilsbury’s room at St Mary’s.’

  ‘There’s a telephone here, sir. I’ll get on to the nick to send a van.’

  ‘Oh, that thing,’ muttered Hardcastle dismissively. In common with his contemporaries, he regarded the telephone as a newfangled device that, like many other innovations introduced by the hierarchy at Scotland Yard, would not last. ‘And while you’re about it speak to Rochester Row and tell them to send a couple of constables to relieve Catto and Watkins and guard this place until it’s properly secured.’ He glanced at the empty showcases. ‘Not that there’s much left to nick.’

  Marriott returned minutes later. ‘Van’s on its way, sir,’ he said, having completed his call.

  ‘Good. Catto, I want you and Watkins to secure the premises and wait until the uniforms get here to keep an eye on it. Then the pair of you can escort the body to St Mary’s. When you’ve done that I want the pair of you to get round the local hospitals.’

  ‘What for, sir?’ Catto visualized not seeing his bed again until that evening.

  ‘Good God, man, to see if anyone, like one of our murderers, has turned up with a cut hand,’ said Hardcastle impatiently. ‘If he has, find out who is he and where he is. You got that, Catto?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good
. And when you’ve done that, call on all the local pawnbrokers and jewellers and see if anyone’s tried to unload any bent tom.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Catto.

  ‘We’ll come back here later today, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and have a look round when there’s more light.’

  ‘I’ll arrange for Mr Collins to be here as well, sir.’

  Hardcastle and Marriott stepped into the street and were fortunate enough to sight a cab immediately, despite it being New Year’s Day.

  ‘Scotland Yard, cabbie,’ said Hardcastle, and turning to Marriott, added, ‘Tell ’em Cannon Row and half the time you’ll finish up at Cannon Street in the City.’

  ‘So I believe, sir,’ said Marriott, sighing inwardly. It was a piece of advice he received every time he and Hardcastle returned to their police station by taxi.

  TWO

  ‘All correct, sir.’ Surprised at the unexpected arrival of the DDI so early in the morning of New Year’s Day, the station officer stood up so quickly that he caught his knee on the underside of his desk.

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion, Skip.’ Hardcastle was always irritated by the requirement for such a report to be made to a senior officer, whether everything was all correct or not. ‘Anything happening I should know about? Apart from a murder in Vauxhall Bridge Road,’ he added wryly.

  ‘We’ve had a fair few arrests off of Trafalgar Square, sir, even though there was an air raid on. The cells here is full to overflowing and Inspector Joplin’s still taking the charges. And I heard tell there’s just as many off of Piccadilly Circus up at Vine Street nick an’ all. We’ve got a couple of pickpockets in, but for the most part it’s young gents what’d had more champagne than was good for ’em while they was celebrating the New Year. Two of ’em had their collars felt for nicking a copper’s helmet.’

  ‘Spoilt toffs like that should be in the bloody army.’ Hardcastle glanced through the glass panel into a charge room crowded with drunken young blades attired in full evening dress. ‘Still, they’ll be in the trenches once Lord Derby’s caught up with ’em.’