Hardcastle's Traitors

by Graham Ison

  ‘Definitely not, Sergeant. He wouldn’t have taken it without asking my permission,’ said Villiers. ‘He always makes a point of coming to see me, if only briefly, so I can assure you he’s not on leave. My son and I get on extremely well, even though Hannah and I no longer see eye to eye,’ he added, allowing his guard to drop for a brief moment. ‘In fact, I had a letter from Haydn only two days ago.’

  ‘I think that’s all you can help me with at the moment, sir,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott rose to their feet. ‘I’ll let you know if we find your motor car.’

  ‘I’d much appreciate getting it back, Inspector,’ said Villiers. ‘I was thinking of having a run to Worthing tomorrow.’ He crossed the room and tugged at a bell pull. ‘Henwood will see you out, gentlemen.’

  ‘Thank you for the whisky, sir,’ said Hardcastle. He did not say that if the vehicle was found, it was unlikely to be returned until DI Collins had been given the chance to examine it thoroughly.

  The butler stepped ahead of Hardcastle and opened the front door.

  ‘Were you at home here all last night, Henwood?’ Hardcastle asked.

  ‘I most certainly was.’ The butler assumed a pained expression.

  ‘And your master?’

  ‘Mr Villiers was here all night. Will that be all … Inspector?’

  ‘Thank you, Henwood.’

  ‘What d’you think, sir?’ asked Marriott, as he and the DDI walked down Flood Street in search of a taxi.

  ‘Damn silly place to leave an expensive motor car, Marriott, that’s what I’m thinking,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’d’ve thought that a man with that much money could’ve found an empty coach house nearby where he could’ve kept the thing. Not that it’s the sort of problem that’s ever likely to worry me,’ he added, finally sighting a cab.

  THREE

  It was not long before Hardcastle was given further news of Sinclair Villiers’s stolen motor car. At six o’clock, a constable appeared in the DDI’s office holding a message form.

  ‘What is it, lad?’

  ‘A message from Wandsworth about a Haxe-Doulton car that’s been found, sir.’ The PC handed Hardcastle the telegraph form.

  ‘Ask Sergeant Marriott to step across,’ said the DDI as he scanned the message.

  ‘I understand the car’s been found, sir,’ said Marriott, buttoning his jacket as he entered Hardcastle’s office.

  ‘Yes, it has, Marriott. It’s a Haxe-Doulton, and the number plate matches the one that Mr Villiers gave the Chelsea police when he reported it stolen. It’s at Wandsworth nick. I just hope that whoever took it in was wearing gloves.’

  ‘So do I, sir. When I sent the message to all stations, I directed that caution should be taken because of the possibility of fingerprints being found.’

  ‘And I suppose they might even have read it,’ complained Hardcastle caustically; he had no great faith in the scholarship of policemen. ‘Go across to the Yard and ask Mr Collins if he can attend, or if he’s not available to send one of his people.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘And tell him we’ll meet whoever it is at Wandsworth.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott, hiding the disappointment from his voice. His hopes of spending the evening of New Year’s Day with his family had just been dashed by the DDI.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ An elderly station sergeant crossed from his desk to the counter as Hardcastle and Marriott entered the front office of Wandsworth police station.

  ‘I’m DDI Hardcastle of A, Skipper, and this is DS Marriott. Your officers have recovered a stolen motor car, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, they have, sir, it was found abandoned in Wandsworth High Street. The vehicle in question is in one of the empty stables. I’ll show you the way.’

  ‘Haven’t you got any horses here, then?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Most of ’em have been took by the army, sir,’ said the station sergeant, as he lifted the flap in the counter and led Hardcastle and Marriott out of the back door and into the station yard.

  Sinclair Villiers’s Haxe-Doulton, shrouded in a tarpaulin, was standing in the centre of one of the stables.

  ‘We thought it would be a good idea to cover it up, sir, what with the dust and bird droppings and that what comes off of the rafters.’

  ‘Help the station sergeant get that tarpaulin off, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, standing back and lighting his pipe.

  Once Villiers’s car was uncovered, Hardcastle walked slowly round it. It was mud bespattered but apparently undamaged. The DDI, however, made no attempt to search it immediately.

  ‘We’ll wait for the fingerprint officer to examine it before we see if we can find anything in it that might help, Marriott.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Not knowing how long it would be before DI Collins or one of his men arrived at the police station, Marriott made no comment about the prospect of not getting home before midnight, by which time he would have been on duty for a good twenty-three hours. But that was the lot of a CID officer, particularly one who had aspirations for further advancement in the Force. And Marriott hoped, one day, to be an inspector or even more.

  It was almost nine o’clock before Charles Collins arrived.

  ‘I thought I’d come myself as it’s a murder job, Ernie.’

  ‘Very good of you, Charlie. We haven’t touched it beyond taking off the tarpaulin.’

  DI Collins spent the next thirty minutes closely examining every surface on the outside and inside of Villiers’s motor car, occasionally muttering to himself while dusting certain parts of the vehicle with grey fingerprint powder. Finally, he produced a camera from his case and began taking photographs.

  ‘I’ve got a few prints, Ernie,’ he said, as he began packing away his equipment. ‘I’ll let you know if they match any in my records. Incidentally, there’s a bloodstain on the steering wheel. Looks as though whoever was driving it might’ve injured himself.’

  ‘Might be a match for the blood on the showcase, sir,’ suggested Marriott.

  ‘Possibly, Marriott, possibly,’ said Hardcastle. ‘How soon can you give me a result, Charlie?’

  ‘It’ll take a day or two,’ said Collins, ‘even after I’ve classified them into arches, loops, whorls or composites.’

  ‘I suppose that all means something,’ muttered Hardcastle, who had no great knowledge of the finer points of fingerprint classification. But he knew he had to be satisfied with Collins’s decision, having long ago discovered that experts were not to be rushed.

  ‘I’ll let you know if I come up with a match, Ernie,’ said Collins.

  ‘We’ll see if we can find anything useful in this here motor car, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, once Collins had departed to make his way back to Scotland Yard.

  But the detectives’ search proved disappointing, apart from a scarf that Marriott found on the floor of the vehicle.

  ‘Ah, and there’s this, sir,’ said Marriott, producing a gold albert from beneath the driver’s seat.

  ‘Bring them with you, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘They might belong to one of our killers. On the other hand, they might belong to Sinclair Villiers. Although I doubt that Villiers would’ve left an albert in his precious motor car.’

  ‘Could be part of the villain’s haul, sir. Either way up, it doesn’t look as though Villiers will be able to have his run to Worthing tomorrow.’

  ‘Hard luck!’ said Hardcastle, who was not greatly concerned about the pastimes of people he described as the idle rich.

  Despite their late finish on the Saturday evening, Hardcastle and Marriott were back at Cannon Row police station on the Sunday morning. But with an uncharacteristic act of charity, Hardcastle had told Marriott that he need not arrive until nine o’clock.

  ‘We’ll pay Mr Villiers a visit, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, glancing at his watch, ‘and give him the glad news about his car. We’ll also ask him if he knows anything about the scarf and the albert we found in it.’

  ‘I hope yo
u’ve come to tell me that you’ve found my car, Inspector,’ said Villiers, as the butler showed Hardcastle and Marriott into the parlour in Flood Street. His tone was such as to indicate that he expected nothing less.

  ‘Yes, we have, sir,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Villiers warmly. ‘Have you brought it with you?’ He took a step towards the window and peered out.

  ‘No, Mr Villiers, we haven’t. It’s at Wandsworth police station waiting for you to collect it at your convenience.’

  ‘But surely, the least the police could have done was to bring it back to me.’ Villiers turned from the window, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘Police regulations don’t allow it. If there was an accident, the Commissioner would be liable for any damages that might be incurred, you see.’ He was unsure whether this was the case, but it seemed a good reason for not providing such a service to the careless owners of expensive motor cars that they left in the street.

  Hardcastle nodded his approval at his sergeant’s initiative. ‘What my sergeant says is quite correct, sir.’ Not that such an excuse would have occurred to the DDI; and he did not even know whether it was true.

  ‘That’s a damn’ nuisance,’ said Villiers. ‘As I told you yesterday, I was hoping to go to Worthing today.’ He paused. ‘Was the car damaged in any way?’

  ‘Not as far as we could see, sir,’ said Hardcastle, ‘although there’s a goodly amount of mud on it.’

  ‘Have you seen this scarf before, sir?’ asked Marriott, producing the item of clothing that he had found behind the driver’s seat in Villiers’s car.

  Villiers took the scarf and examined it. ‘No, it’s certainly not mine. In fact I’ve not seen it before,’ he said, but it did not escape Hardcastle’s notice that Villiers had hesitated before answering, more than he thought was necessary. He was certain that he would know what his own scarves looked like and it would be an instant decision to say whether one was his.

  ‘And give Mr Villiers a glim of the button, Marriott,’ said the DDI.

  ‘Have you seen this before, sir?’ Marriott handed over the button.

  Villiers took some time examining it before returning it. ‘No, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Or this?’ asked Marriott, producing the albert.

  Villiers took the item and ran it through his fingers, studying it closely. ‘No, Sergeant,’ he said, returning it. ‘It looks to be a rather cheap watch chain. Not the sort of thing I’d wear, or even possess. It’s gold plate; not the real thing at all.’

  ‘The police station is in Wandsworth High Street, Mr Villiers,’ said Hardcastle helpfully, ‘just at the foot of West Hill. It would be as well if you took some proof of your ownership of the vehicle with you.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’ Villiers did not seem at all happy at having to traipse all the way to Wandsworth to get his car back. Although he said nothing to Hardcastle, it crossed his mind to pen a letter of complaint to the Commissioner.

  ‘By the way, sir,’ said Hardcastle, ‘there was a bloodstain on the steering wheel. Was it there when you last saw the vehicle?’

  ‘A bloodstain?’ Villiers spoke sharply, his voice expressing horror as though any suggestion that his beloved car might not be immaculate was tantamount to a personal insult. ‘It’s certainly nothing to do with me. Where did it come from?’

  ‘Probably from one of the men who stole your car in order to commit a murder, sir.’

  ‘I hope you catch them, Inspector.’

  ‘Oh I will, sir,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Rest assured that early one morning the hangman will be stretching their necks as they mark time in thin air. And if I have anything to do with it, it’ll be sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Yes, quite so.’ Villiers wrinkled his nose with distaste at Hardcastle’s bloodthirsty language.

  ‘How d’you start your car, Mr Villiers?’ asked Marriott, who was more familiar with motor vehicles than his DDI.

  ‘You pull out the choke and press the starter,’ said Villiers, as though such a course of action was obvious. ‘And then let the choke in slowly as the revs pick up.’

  ‘Isn’t a key required to start it, then? Or to lock the vehicle with?’

  ‘No, but then one doesn’t expect people to go about stealing cars, does one?’

  ‘I do,’ commented Hardcastle drily.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Villiers, and rang for the butler to show the detectives out.

  Hardcastle and Marriott strode along Flood Street towards King’s Road in search of a cab. ‘That there Sinclair Villiers seemed to make a bit of a meal out of deciding whether that scarf was his or not, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘It certainly wouldn’t have taken me that long, sir,’ agreed Marriott. ‘But then I’ve only got one scarf and as Lorna knitted it for me, I’d’ve recognized it straight off.’

  ‘I’m just wondering whether that Villiers knows more than he’s telling,’ said Hardcastle, finally spotting a taxi.

  ‘You surely don’t think he had anything to do with this murder, do you, sir?’ Once again, Marriott was astounded at what he secretly called ‘one of the guv’nor’s flights of fancy’.

  ‘You’ve known me long enough to know that I always keep my options open, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle mysteriously. ‘I’ve known of a few toffs who’ve committed murder over the years.’

  ‘But the butler was adamant that he and Villiers were at home all night, sir.’

  ‘Of course he was, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Of course he was. Unless it was the butler what nicked Villiers’s precious motor car. So far, all they’ve come up with is what you might call mutually compensating alibis.’ He chuckled at what he thought was quite a clever turn of phrase.

  On their return to Cannon Row police station, Hardcastle spent a few minutes in the front office examining the crime book. Satisfied that there was nothing to demand his immediate attention, he ascended the stairs to the detectives’ office.

  Pushing open the door, his gaze lighted on DC Catto.

  ‘What have you done about those enquiries I gave you and Watkins, Catto?’

  ‘We checked with the hospitals, sir. Westminster, Charing Cross, Saint Thomas’, Saint George’s—’

  ‘All right, all right, Catto, I know which they are. You checked them all within, say, a five-mile radius, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Catto knew that for him to have done otherwise would have incurred the DDI’s wrath. ‘There was no record of anyone attending after midnight on Friday with an injury like a cut hand.’

  ‘Did you try Putney hospital?’

  ‘Putney, sir? No, sir.’ Catto was clearly puzzled by the DDI’s question.

  ‘Why not? The car was found in Wandsworth.’

  ‘I’ll get on it straight away, sir.’

  ‘What about jewellers and pawnbrokers?’

  ‘We checked all those on the list, sir, and nothing has been taken in yet.’ Catto was alluding to the list that each police station held of all such establishments in its area. ‘Some of them won’t open until tomorrow morning though.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll be on their doorsteps waiting for them to turn up,’ said Hardcastle, and returned to his office, leaving Catto wondering how he could be in more than one place at the same time.

  ‘Better send a message to surrounding stations, Marriott, asking for checks to be made in case our villains have been trying to fence their ill-gotten gains further afield.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘And then, Marriott, I think we’ll call it a day. There ain’t much we can do until tomorrow morning. My regards to Mrs Marriott.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, and mine to Mrs H.’

  The clattering of the letter box signalled the arrival of the morning newspaper. Hardcastle stood up from the kitchen table and walked through to the hall. Picking up the Daily Mail, he began scanning the headlines as he returned to start his breakfast.

  ‘Anyth
ing in the paper, Ernie?’ Alice posed the same question every morning. She placed a plate of eggs, bacon, a sausage and fried bread in front of her husband, and poured him a second cup of tea. It was the breakfast that Hardcastle consumed every morning and without which he claimed he could not face a day’s work.

  He never enquired how his wife was able to produce such a hearty breakfast every day despite the shortages brought on by the war; he just assumed that the grocer was generous because Hardcastle was a senior police officer.

  ‘It says here that last Thursday the P&O liner SS Persia was torpedoed in the Mediterranean.’ Hardcastle propped the newspaper against a tomato ketchup bottle. ‘Over three hundred passengers were drowned, including two Americans. And one of them was a diplomat. It’s things like that that’ll bring the Americans into this war, my girl, you mark my words.’

  ‘It’s shocking what the war is doing,’ said Alice, sitting down opposite her husband. ‘People murdering people all the time.’

  ‘I know,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’m in the trade.’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about, Ernest,’ responded his wife. She only ever called him by his full name by way of reproof or in moments of exasperation.

  ‘And that’s not all,’ continued Hardcastle between mouthfuls, as his eye lighted upon another item. ‘It seems that on the same day HMS Natal blew up in Cromarty harbour in the North Sea. Over three hundred killed. It says here that there was a children’s party going on and the captain, a man called Eric Back, and his wife and all the children were killed.’

  Alice Hardcastle put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, those poor children,’ she said. ‘The Germans have got a lot to answer for, Ernie.’

  ‘According to the paper, the Admiralty are saying it was an accidental explosion.’ Hardcastle looked at his wife. ‘And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything,’ he said. ‘That’ll be the censor’s doing, saying that. They don’t want to alarm people, you see, my girl.’ He folded the newspaper and stood up. ‘But the people of this country aren’t stupid. They know what’s going on, and they’ll have worked out that somehow or other a German submarine got right into Cromarty harbour.’