by Graham Ison
After what seemed an interminable wait, Hardcastle eventually caught a crowded tram, and arrived at his office at half past eight.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Marriott, as he followed Hardcastle into the DDI’s office.
‘I’ve decided that we’ll pay a visit to Mrs Villiers,’ said Hardcastle, without returning his sergeant’s greeting, but Marriott was accustomed to the DDI ignoring the common courtesies.
‘What do we hope to learn from her, sir?’ Once again, Marriott was baffled by the course of action the DDI was suggesting. But he knew Hardcastle well enough to know that he frequently embarked on a seemingly pointless enquiry only to see it bear fruit.
‘Won’t know till we ask,’ said Hardcastle. ‘According to Sinclair Villiers, Hannah Villiers lives in Prince of Wales Drive, Battersea. Where exactly?’
Marriott had known that the question would be asked sooner or later, and the previous day had dispatched a detective to find out. ‘It’s one of the mansion flats, sir. I’ve got the details.’
‘We’re police officers, lass, and I’d like to speak to Mrs Villiers,’ said Hardcastle, when a young housemaid answered the door. ‘But tell her there’s nothing to worry about.’ Early on in the war the DDI had learned that families with men at the Front always feared the worst when the police arrived at their door. And Sinclair Villiers had told him that their son, Haydn Villiers, was a captain in the Royal Field Artillery serving with the BEF.
‘If you’ll step inside, sir, I’ll see if the mistress is at home.’ Having made that formal response, the housemaid conducted the two detectives into the hall, and disappeared into a room on the right. Moments later, she returned. ‘Come this way, please, sir.’
‘Elsie, my maid, tells me you’re from the police.’ Hannah Villiers was a tall, elegant and attractive woman. Given that she had a son who was a captain, she must have been at least forty-five, but looked a good ten years younger. Crossing the room with a swish of her silk dress and a waft of Attar of Violets, she shook hands with Hardcastle. ‘Please take a seat, gentlemen, and tell me how I may help you,’ she added, waving a hand at a sofa.
‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, madam, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’
‘From Whitehall, eh? How intriguing. Would you care for some tea? I was about to have some myself.’
‘Most kind,’ murmured Hardcastle, taking a seat opposite the woman.
‘Now tell me what this is all about,’ said Mrs Villiers, once Elsie had been dispatched to make the tea. She briefly touched her upswept brown hair.
‘I’m investigating a murder that took place during a robbery in Vauxhall Bridge Road, madam,’ Hardcastle began. ‘It was a murder in which we believe Mr Sinclair Villiers’s car was involved.’
Hannah Villiers threw back her head and emitted a gay, tinkling laugh. ‘D’you mean someone stole his precious Haxe-Doulton motor car to carry out this murder? Did they wreck it?’
‘No, Mrs Villiers,’ said Marriott. ‘There wasn’t a scratch on it.’
‘Oh, what a shame. Speaking frankly, Sergeant, my estranged husband loved that car more than he loved me. But why have you come to see me? I no longer live with him, as I’m sure he must have told you.’
‘So I understand, madam,’ said Hardcastle.
‘It must’ve hurt his ego when I upped sticks and left him just before the war started,’ continued Hannah Villiers in matter-of-fact tones. ‘But Sinclair always liked to be in control. He insisted on the household being kept in a certain order and would carry out inspections, and reorganize things. It really was most intolerable. Apart from that, he ignored me … in every way. I’m sure you know what I mean, Inspector; to him, bed was a place for sleeping in.’ She paused to stare directly at Hardcastle as she fingered the Star of David that hung from a silver chain at her neck. ‘It was really too much, so I left him. However, you still haven’t told me how any of this concerns me.’
Once again, Hardcastle was surprised at how often women were prepared to share the most intimate details of their married life with a complete stranger. But, paradoxically, rarely spoke of it to their closest friends.
‘Mr Villiers told me that your son, Captain Villiers, stays with you when he is on leave.’
‘That’s correct. In fact he’s here now. But surely he can’t help you with this murder, can he?’
However, further conversation on the subject was interrupted by the arrival of the tea.
‘Just put it down over there, Elsie,’ said Hannah. ‘I’ll deal with it.’ And she spent the next few minutes pouring the tea and handing it round.
‘You say your son is here now, Mrs Villiers,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Mr Villiers told me that he was still in France.’
‘Well, Sinclair doesn’t know everything, despite what he might think. Haydn’s not here at this precise moment, but he is staying with me. I think he’s due to go back to France on Friday. He was lucky enough to get leave for Christmas and actually arrived late on Christmas Eve. But I don’t really see how he can help you, Inspector.’
‘Nor can I, madam,’ said Hardcastle disarmingly, ‘until I speak to him. According to Mr Villiers, your son had permission to use the car, and I was wondering whether he had taken it and perhaps left it somewhere, and that it was stolen from there rather than from Flood Street.’ He did not think that at all, but was wondering whether Haydn Villiers had actually been involved in a robbery that had culminated in murder.
‘I see. Well, he’ll probably be back in time for luncheon. He wasn’t here last night, and I’ve no idea where he’s been.’ Hannah Villiers paused and gave a wry smile. ‘But I could hazard a guess at what he was doing.’
Hardcastle took out his hunter and stared at it. Giving it a brief wind, he dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket and stood up. ‘I wonder if you’d be so good as to ask him to call in at Cannon Row police station at his convenience, madam. Then I can clear this matter up for once and all.’
‘Of course, Inspector.’ She picked up a small bell and rang it. Seconds later, the housemaid appeared. ‘These gentlemen are leaving now, Elsie. Perhaps you’d show them out.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Elsie bobbed a brief curtsy and waited.
‘I hope you catch your murderer, Inspector.’ Hannah Villiers smiled, but the smile was directed at Marriott rather than Hardcastle.
‘I will, madam,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You may rest assured of that.’
FOUR
At two o’clock that same afternoon a constable appeared in Hardcastle’s office.
‘There’s a Captain Villiers downstairs, sir. He says as how you want to see him.’
‘Yes, I do. Show him up, lad, and on your way out tell Sergeant Marriott to come in.’
Haydn Villiers, a man in his early twenties with a neatly trimmed moustache, was immaculate in every respect. His service dress was well-tailored and his Sam Browne and riding boots were polished to perfection. His tunic bore three stars on each cuff, the ribbon of the Military Cross and grenade badges on the collar. His squarely placed cap displayed the distinctive cannon insignia of the Royal Artillery.
‘Inspector Hardcastle? I’m Haydn Villiers,’ the youthful gunner said smoothly, and saluted: a courtesy rather than an obligation.
‘Please take a seat, Captain Villiers. This is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’
Villiers nodded briefly in Marriott’s direction. ‘My mother told me that you wanted to speak to me. Something about my father’s car?’ He placed his cap on the edge of Hardcastle’s desk, and took out a gold cigarette case. ‘D’you mind?’ he enquired, holding a cigarette in the air.
‘Not at all,’ said Hardcastle, reaching for his pipe. ‘I have spoken to your father and he told me that you have permission to use his car, Captain Villiers. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, but I don’t see what this has to do with me, Inspector.’
‘I presume your mother told you about the murder I’m investiga
ting,’ said Hardcastle, having eventually got his pipe alight to his satisfaction. ‘A murder that we believe your father’s Haxe-Doulton was involved in.’
‘She did, but I still don’t see what that has to do with me.’ Despite repeating that disclaimer, Villiers appeared to be a little anxious, as though unsure where Hardcastle’s line of questioning was leading.
‘Let’s get down to brass tacks, then, Captain. Have you used your father’s car at any time since coming home on Christmas Eve?’
‘No, I haven’t. I admit I’ve used it in the past, but only with the guv’nor’s permission. As a matter of fact, I haven’t been to see him this time round.’
‘But he told us that he received a letter from you only two days ago. And that led him to believe you were still in France.’
‘It’s probably the one I wrote to him a fortnight ago,’ said Villiers. ‘The army postal service is a bit hit and miss. It can sometimes take days if not weeks to get the troops mail moving across the Channel. And vice versa,’ he added.
‘Is there a particular reason why you haven’t visited him on this occasion?’ enquired Hardcastle.
‘I’m afraid that he and I don’t always see eye to eye,’ said Villiers. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, my father is a bully.’
Haydn Villiers’s mother had mentioned that Sinclair Villiers enjoyed being in control, and it was probably that that caused his son to be disinclined to visit his father.
‘Where were you on New Year’s Eve, Captain Villiers?’ demanded Hardcastle, getting straight to the point.
‘With respect, I don’t see that that’s any of your business, Inspector.’ From the way he replied, the young officer was clearly irritated at what he saw as an unwarranted intrusion into his private life.
‘I would remind you that I’m investigating a particularly brutal murder, Captain,’ said Hardcastle sharply. ‘Perhaps you’d be so good as to answer the question.’
‘I was with a lady.’ Villiers brushed at his moustache and smiled.
‘What’s the lady’s name, Captain Villiers?’ asked Marriott, opening his pocketbook and taking out a pencil.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m not prepared to tell you. It’s a rather delicate situation, don’t you know.’
‘In other words, you’re not willing to tell me where you were.’ Hardcastle placed his pipe in the ashtray and leaned forward linking his hands on his desk, and fixing Villiers with a steely gaze. ‘You appreciate that your refusal to name this lady makes me suspicious.’
‘Then you’ll just have to be suspicious, won’t you, Inspector? I do have the lady’s reputation to consider.’ A faintly supercilious expression crossed Villiers’s face. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else, I do have an appointment.’
‘Thank you for calling in, Captain Villiers.’ Hardcastle paused. ‘I understand that you’re returning to France on Friday.’
‘Yes, that’s correct.’
‘Keep your head down,’ said the DDI.
‘You’ve no need to worry about that, Inspector. Being at the Front tends to develop one’s innate ability to sense danger.’ It was an enigmatic statement that was not lost on the DDI.
‘I may have to see you again, Captain Villiers.’ Hardcastle did not think that to be the case, but merely said it to see Villiers’s reaction.
‘You’ll have to come to Neuve Chapelle, then.’ And with that pithy rejoinder, Captain Villiers put on his cap, turned abruptly and left the office.
‘Our young captain seemed more than a little anxious when I was asking him about his father’s car, Marriott.’
‘I suppose he could’ve been involved, sir. Either that or he’s bedding a married woman.’
‘Or he’s got something else to hide,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Fetch Catto in here.’
Seconds later, Henry Catto hovered nervously in the DDI’s doorway, apprehensive as always in the DDI’s presence.
‘You wanted me, sir?’
‘I’ve got a following job for you and Watkins, Catto.’ For a moment or two, Hardcastle studied the junior detective, wondering whether he had made the right decision in selecting him for the job he had in mind. ‘Captain Haydn Villiers has just left my office. He said that he spent New Year’s Eve with a lady. I want you to find out who she is.’ He picked up his pipe. ‘Although I’ve got my doubts that such a lady exists.’
‘Do we know where this Captain Villiers lives, sir?’ Catto was taken aback at the enormity of the task that the DDI had just set him and Watkins.
‘He’s staying with his mother in Battersea while he’s on leave, Catto. Sergeant Marriott will give you the address and a description of the man. But he was away from that address last night, and he claimed that he was with a lady. If that was the case, it’s an odds-on chance that he’ll be there again tonight. Follow him. Discreetly.’
‘What time d’you want us to start the observation, sir?’
‘In time to make sure you’re bloody well there when he sets off, Catto.’ Hardcastle waved an impatient hand of dismissal.
‘Yes, sir.’ The DDI’s reply left Catto with a dilemma. If he and Watkins arrived too early, there was a good chance of them being seen loitering; and they did not want to arouse suspicion. To arrive too late might mean missing the captain altogether.
‘And don’t make a Mons of it, Catto.’
‘No, sir.’
Marriott followed Catto out of Hardcastle’s office and into the detectives’ office opposite.
‘Catto.’
‘Yes, Sarge?’ An unhappy Catto turned to face Marriott.
‘You and Watkins take up the observation at six o’clock, and if that turns out to be too late, you can tell the guv’nor that was when I told you to take it up.’ Marriott had much more faith in Catto than did Hardcastle. He knew that he was a good hard-working detective, and only ever lost his self-confidence when confronted by the DDI. Apart from which, he was irritated that the DDI had not given Catto specific instructions. Not that he would say as much to a junior officer. Before dismissing the detective constable, Marriott gave him a description of Haydn Villiers and drew a rough sketch of the cap badge that the army officer wore.
‘Thanks, Sarge,’ said a relieved Catto.
‘And the rank is sergeant, not sarge, Catto,’ said Marriott, and returned to the DDI’s office.
Hardcastle glanced at his watch, briefly wound it and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket. ‘Time we were getting up to Paddington, Marriott. Dr Spilsbury’s conducting the post-mortem on Gosling this afternoon.’
‘I’ve just finished, Hardcastle.’ Spilsbury took off his rubber apron and tossed it on to a side bench. ‘I haven’t found anything that you don’t know already, my dear fellow. And that is that Gosling died as a result of several severe blows to the head causing multiple cranial fractures of the skull associated with contusion of the brain. I found six lacerated wounds on the scalp showing dents from one to two inches long, some on the front and some on the back of the head.’ The pathologist paused. ‘I would say that your attackers intended to kill the poor man.’
‘D’you think it was the sash weight we found that did for him, Doctor?’
‘Almost certainly,’ said Spilsbury. ‘If you care to let me have the weight, I’ll be able to tell you for sure. I’ve also analysed the blood sample that was found on the showcase, but I’m sorry to have to tell you that it was blood group O-plus.’
‘Is that no good, then?’ Hardcastle was not too well versed in medical matters.
‘I don’t think that it will be of any assistance to you. It’s the most common blood group there is. Probably forty per cent of the population have it running through their veins.’ Spilsbury paused, smiling. ‘And their arteries of course.’
‘If he used a sash weight, he must’ve brought it with him,’ said Hardcastle. ‘And that, to my mind, shows intent to murder.’
‘Very likely,’ said Spilsbury, ‘but that’s your province rather than mine, Hardcastle.’
Dispirited, they hunched their shoulders beneath their overcoats and began to amble up and down trying to appear inconspicuous. There was no cover and no shop doorways in which they could shelter and be hidden from any curious eyes that might be watching them from the mansion flats. But at least their umbrellas shielded their faces. For what good that was.
For an hour and a half the two detectives wandered disconsolately up and down the street, grateful that it was now dark and that, thanks to wartime restrictions, some of the street lamps were unlit; those that were alight had been dimmed.
Their enforced patience was rewarded at half past seven when they saw an army officer emerge from one of the grand entrances.
‘D’you think that’s him, Henry?’ asked Watkins.
‘I hope so, Cecil. Is he a captain?’
‘Yes, he’s got three pips on the shoulder straps of his greatcoat and what looks like an artillery badge on his cap, but I can’t see it clearly. But it looks a bit like the one that Sergeant Marriott drew for you.’
‘He certainly fits the description that the skipper gave me.’ Not that that was any great help; to Catto and many other civilians, one army officer looked much like another.
Fortunately for the watching detectives, two cabs came along Prince of Wales Drive one after the other. The army officer hailed one, and Catto hailed the following one.
The gunner officer’s cab crossed Albert Bridge, turned into King’s Road, Chelsea, and finally stopped outside a three-storied dwelling in Elm Park Gardens.
Catto and Watkins remained in their cab until they saw which house the army officer had entered.
‘I hope to God that was him,’ said Watkins.
‘So do I,’ said Catto. He paid the cab driver and took a note of the plate number without which details the DDI would disallow his claim. It was not unknown for the Receiver’s clerks to question cab drivers about particular fares, but they almost always confirmed them. Cabbies had no wish to upset the police officers who used them. And might use them again. The police and cab drivers were never good friends, even at the best of times.