Hardcastle's Traitors

by Graham Ison

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Marriott, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. The DDI said that every time they took a cab together.

  Hardcastle yanked at the handle set to the left of the heavy wooden doors and heard a bell jangling somewhere inside.

  ‘Yes?’ A heavily bearded warder had opened the wicket gate a fraction.

  ‘DDI Hardcastle, Metropolitan Police, and DS Marriott to see Albert Harris.’ Hardcastle and Marriott produced their warrant cards.

  ‘Ah, right you are, gents. We got a message to say you’d be coming.’ The warder pulled open the wicket gate wide enough for the two detectives to enter.

  Another warder appeared. ‘Welcome to the best hotel in London, guv’nor,’ he said. ‘Follow me and I’ll get hold of Harris for you.’

  Hardcastle and Marriott were led along several labyrinthine passageways pervaded with the overpowering odour of urine, until eventually they were shown into a small, dank, stone-flagged room. The only light came from a barred window high in the wall.

  ‘I’ll enquire if Mr Harris is at home, guv’nor. If he is, I’ll have him along here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,’ said the warder, and laughed. ‘I think he’s receiving visitors today.’

  ‘Cheerful sort of bloke, ain’t he, Marriott?’ Hardcastle took out his pipe and began to fill it.

  Five minutes later the shambling figure of Albert Harris was escorted into the room. He was attired in the standard prison uniform of canvas jacket and trousers embellished with the broad arrows designed to aid apprehension in the event of an escape. Not that there was much chance of a prisoner escaping from this particular prison.

  ‘I’ll be outside when you’ve done with him, guv’nor,’ said the cheerful warder.

  ‘Hello, Mr ’Ardcastle. Fancy seeing you. You ain’t been sent down an’ all, ’ave yer?’

  ‘Just keep your smart remarks to yourself, Harris, unless you fancy a transfer to Dartmoor. And I can fix it, just like that.’ Hardcastle flicked his fingers in Harris’s face. ‘Now sit down.’

  ‘No offence, Mr ’Ardcastle,’ said the chastened Harris. ‘Just a joke, that’s all.’

  ‘You got five years for screwing a drum in Grosvenor Place last October, Harris,’ said Marriott.

  ‘It’s common knowledge, Mr Marriott.’

  ‘And among the other stuff you nicked was this.’ Marriott placed the ring on the table; his statement was made in such a way that brooked no denial.

  Harris examined the ring. ‘Yeah, maybe,’ he said.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Marriott. ‘Who did you fence it to?’

  Hurriedly dropping the ring, Harris shot back in his chair. ‘I ain’t no grass, Mr Marriott,’ he protested. ‘You should know that.’

  ‘You are now, Harris,’ growled Hardcastle menacingly. ‘Unless you want to be on the night train to Dartmoor. If they don’t make you walk, that is.’

  ‘Can we keep this to ourselves?’ pleaded Harris. He cast a furtive glance around the small room, as though fearful of being overheard.

  ‘I’m waiting,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘It was Reuben Gosling.’ Harris almost whispered the name. ‘But for Gawd’s sake don’t let on I told you. He’s got friends in here and I don’t fancy getting a striping for grassing.’

  ‘He hasn’t got any friends, not any more,’ said Marriott. ‘Someone topped him on New Year’s Eve. And his killers helped themselves to a load of tom, that included most likely,’ he added, picking up the ring.

  ‘Oh my oath! Who done for him, then?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out, Harris,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Well, don’t look at me, Mr ’Ardcastle. I was celebrating the New Year in here.’ Harris gave a nervous laugh.

  Hardcastle laughed outright. ‘That’s the first time in your life you’ve ever had a watertight alibi, Harris.’

  ‘So, Gosling was a fence, sir,’ said Marriott, when he and the DDI were in a cab on their way back to Cannon Row.

  ‘Comes as no surprise, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But it makes our job that much harder.’

  ‘It could be that the man who tried to fence the ring with Parfitt was the man who topped Gosling, sir.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Hardcastle thoughtfully. ‘A fence makes all sorts of enemies. On the other hand, he might’ve got the ring from whoever did the deed. But any way up he’s got some questions to answer when we do find him. And we will.’

  And of that, Marriott was in no doubt. ‘But Mr Parfitt said that the man who tried it on with him had a bandaged hand, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t suppose he’s the only man in London who’s hurt himself, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, and for the remainder of the journey, he remained silent, sunk in deep contemplation.

  Once back at the police station, Hardcastle swept through the front office and bounded up the stairs with an agility that was incompatible with his bulk.

  Throwing open the door of the detectives’ office, he glared round at his staff.

  ‘Listen carefully. Sergeant Marriott and me have just had a word with Albert Harris in Wandsworth nick. He’s doing a handful for screwing and he told me that Reuben Gosling was a fence, which I’d suspected all along. Yesterday a man tried to fence a ring to Gilbert Parfitt in Vic Street. Catto knows that already. Don’t you, Catto?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But we know that Harris nicked it in the course of a burglary at Grosvenor Place last October, and finished up in chokey for his pains. Now, for once in your lives you lot are going to pretend to be real detectives and get out on the street. Speak to your informants, if you’ve got any,’ said Hardcastle sarcastically, ‘and find out who else has been fencing bent tom to Gosling. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ chorused the detectives.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for,’ said Hardcastle, and returned to his office.

  Moments later, Marriott knocked and entered. ‘I’ve just had a call from Sergeant Glover at the APM’s office, sir.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, Marriott, they can’t find Tindall.’

  ‘On the contrary, sir. Glover said that the APM has urgent information for you, if you’d care to call in next time you’re passing.’

  ‘We’ll be passing in about ten minutes’ time,’ said Hardcastle, donning his Chesterfield overcoat and seizing his hat and umbrella. ‘Come, Marriott.’

  ‘Second Lieutenant George Tindall of the Royal Field Artillery has disappeared, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Lieutenant Colonel Ralph Frobisher.

  ‘Is he missing in action, sir?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘No, he’s absent without leave. That’s how we were able to get an answer so quickly. Sergeant Glover always looks at the list of absentees and deserters whenever you make an enquiry, Inspector.’ Frobisher glanced at Hardcastle with a half-smile on his face. ‘I think he’s formed the view that anyone in whom you have an interest is a criminal of some sort.’

  ‘Your Sergeant Glover’s obviously a shrewd fellow; you might even make a policeman of him one day,’ said Hardcastle drily. ‘What more do you know, Colonel?’

  ‘Apparently things were a bit quiet on Christmas Day in that theatre of the Front covered by Colonel Powell’s brigade of the RFA. In fact, the brigade was in rest. They weren’t playing football with Fritz like they did in 1914, but there was, by all accounts, a small celebration among the officers; as much as there could be in a theatre of operations. However, after a while Colonel Powell noticed that Tindall wasn’t there. He made a few enquiries as to the officer’s whereabouts, but he hadn’t been seen since midday on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Is it possible that he’d been wounded and evacuated, sir?’ queried Marriott.

  ‘Seems a bit of rum do, losing an officer,’ commented Hardcastle quietly.

  ‘It happens, Inspector,’ said Frobisher. ‘But to answer your question, Sergeant Marriott, Tindall had been seen alive and well after the last action in which the brigade had been involved and, indeed, after they
’d been pulled back. Just to make sure, enquiries were made with the regimental aid post and the casualty clearing station. There was no trace of him anywhere. The matter was reported to Colonel Cunningham’s office – Cunningham’s the provost marshal of the BEF – and Tindall was officially reported as absent without leave.’

  ‘Is there any chance he might’ve made it back to this country, Colonel?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘The brigade was down near Neuve Chapelle …’ Frobisher stood up and crossed to a wall map. ‘It’s a good seventy miles from there to Boulogne,’ he said, roughly tracing the route with a forefinger. ‘Assuming he managed to get there and talk his way on to a troopship, it’s a possibility. I doubt he’d’ve had much luck trying to get passage in a civilian craft. What few there are, are coastal fishing vessels.’

  ‘So, he could still be in France, sir,’ suggested Marriott.

  Frobisher resumed his seat behind his desk. ‘The short answer to that, Sergeant Marriott, is that he could be anywhere.’

  ‘If we find him in London, Colonel,’ said Hardcastle, ‘we’ll let you have him back. Provided he don’t have an appointment with John Ellis.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Frobisher, mystified, as he so often was, by one of Hardcastle’s enigmatic remarks.

  ‘He’s the official hangman,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘D’you think that Tindall’s our man, sir?’ asked Marriott, when he and the DDI were back at the police station.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Hardcastle pensively, a statement that surprised Marriott in view of what the DDI had said to Colonel Frobisher. ‘But if Tindall is in this country, then young Villiers could be in danger.’

  ‘There’s not much we can do about that, sir.’

  ‘Oh, but there is, Marriott. We’ll have another word with Villiers.’

  ‘Now, sir?’

  ‘No. I think we’ll call on him a bit later. Fetch Catto in here.’

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’ said Catto, displaying his usual measure of apprehension.

  ‘You did an observation on Prince of Wales Drive on Monday, Catto, when you tracked down Captain Villiers.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Catto was certain that the DDI was about to find some fault with the way in which that observation had been conducted or that he was about to query the expenses that he and Watkins had incurred.

  ‘Good. Well, you’re about to do it again. I want to be certain that Captain Haydn Villiers is there before Sergeant Marriott and me go traipsing all the way out there to speak to him. Start about six this evening.’

  ‘But how can I be sure he’s there without knocking on the door, sir?’ asked Catto, fearing that once again he was to be faced with an impossible task.

  ‘Then, Catto, you knock on the bloody door. I’d’ve thought that was obvious. Use your common sense, but don’t show out. You are supposed to be a detective, after all.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Catto was on surer ground now that he had a specific instruction, and turned to leave. But wondering how he could knock at the door and still not show out.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Have any of you learned anything from your informants about Gosling’s fencing activities?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Don’t forget,’ growled Hardcastle.

  Henry Catto was far more confident when he was out of the DDI’s presence. He rang the bell of Hannah Villiers’s apartment and waited.

  Having passed the hurdle of Mrs Villiers’s maid, Catto was eventually shown into the drawing room.

  ‘I’m a police officer, madam,’ said Catto. ‘Detective Constable Catto,’ he added, producing his warrant card.

  ‘Captain Villiers isn’t here, if that’s who you want,’ said Mrs Villiers with a sigh. ‘He’s visiting his lady friend, and I’ve no idea where she lives.’

  ‘I’m sorry, madam, but I don’t know anything about a Captain … who did you say?’

  ‘There were two policemen here on Monday. Haven’t you come about the same thing?’

  ‘No, madam, I’m merely warning people in the area that there have been a number of thefts locally by a man pretending to be from the water board. He usually asks the householder to go upstairs and turn on the bathroom taps while he pretends to check the downstairs pipes for leaks. While she’s doing that, he steals whatever he can lay his hands on and makes off.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Thank you, officer. I’ll be on my guard, and I’ll inform my servants.’

  ‘If any suspicious characters should call, madam, don’t admit them, and call a constable.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hannah Villiers again, and rang for Elsie to show Catto out.

  Just to guard against the possibility of Mrs Villiers mentioning his visit to her neighbours, Catto called at the apartments on either side of Mrs Villiers’s and warned them against the fictitious water board official. That done, he made his way to nearby Battersea police station and sent a message to Sergeant Marriott.

  ‘A message from Catto, sir. He called at Mrs Villiers’s place and she told him that Haydn Villiers was visiting his lady friend, but that she didn’t know where she lived. It looks as though Annabel Powell’s forgiven him after all. If that’s where he’s gone.’

  ‘I just hope Catto didn’t blow the gaff,’ said Hardcastle, as ever reluctant to give praise, even when it was due.

  ‘He’s a very reliable officer, sir.’ Marriott was always finding himself in the position of defending Catto against what he saw as the DDI’s unjustified criticism.

  ‘So you say, Marriott, so you say.’ Hardcastle put on his hat and coat, and took hold of his umbrella. Finally, he took his pipe from the ashtray and thrust it into his pocket. ‘We’ll pay another visit to Annabel Powell and have a word with young Villiers.’

  ‘But he might have another lady friend who lives somewhere else, sir.’

  ‘Judging by the cut of young Villiers, I wouldn’t mind betting he’s got a whole stable of fillies in London, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But if that’s the case, we’ll know soon enough.’

  Hardcastle beat a loud rat-a-tat on the lion’s head knocker of Annabel Powell’s Elm Park Gardens house. To his amazement, the door was opened by Haydn Villiers himself.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here, Inspector? It’s not very convenient at the moment.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it is, Captain Villiers, but I have something of vital importance to tell you.’

  ‘You’d better come in, then.’ Reluctantly, Villiers showed the two CID officers into the drawing room.

  ‘Who was that at the door, Haydn darling?’ Annabel Powell, wearing the same silk kimono and slippers in which she had greeted the detectives on their last visit, swept into the drawing room. ‘Oh, my good God!’ she exclaimed, as she sighted Hardcastle and Marriott.

  Villiers laughed. ‘That’s what comes of giving the maid sixpence to visit a picture house every evening, darling.’

  ‘It’s not funny,’ said Annabel. ‘Anyway, you know why I give her the evenings off.’

  ‘Your secret’s quite safe with me and Sergeant Marriott, Mrs Powell. I shan’t tell the colonel,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Right now, we have bigger fish to fry.’

  ‘Sounds serious,’ said Villiers. ‘You’d better sit down.’

  ‘I have reason to believe that your life may be in danger, Captain Villiers,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘It has been since the war started,’ said Villiers, with a cheerful laugh behind which was an element of cynicism.

  ‘I’m not talking about the war,’ said Hardcastle, and went on to tell Villiers of the desertion of George Tindall. And he reminded him of the threat that Tindall had made against him.

  ‘Crikey! I’ll bet the colonel was in a temper when he found out about Tindall going adrift,’ said Villiers.

  ‘So long as that’s all he finds out about,’ said Annabel. Resigned to having been caught out, she had taken a seat in an armchair opposite Hardcastle and Marriott. Using both hands, she attempted to resto
re some order into her untidy hair.

  ‘Do you really think he’s got as far as Blighty, Inspector?’ Villiers did not seem greatly disturbed by Hardcastle’s information, and that made the DDI wonder.

  ‘Your guess is as good as ours, Captain Villiers,’ said Marriott. ‘But the assistant provost marshal for London District doesn’t know where he is, obviously, otherwise he’d’ve had him arrested.’

  ‘Which is what I’ll do if I find him,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘I’m going back to France tomorrow,’ said Villiers. ‘Not that I’ll be much safer over there.’

  ‘D’you think that this man might come here, Inspector?’ asked Annabel. Having heard of the threat that Tindall had made, she appeared more concerned than her paramour.

  ‘I doubt it very much, Mrs Powell,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but be careful when you open the door. I saw that you had a chain on it; make sure you keep it fastened.’

  ‘Do you happen to know the names of anyone Second Lieutenant Tindall owed money to, Captain Villiers?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘No, I don’t. But given that he was a gambler, I can only think that it’s a bookmaker.’

  ‘Watch your back over there, Captain Villiers,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott stood up to leave. ‘As well as your front.’

  ‘Oh, I shall, Inspector.’

  ‘One other thing, Mrs Powell …’ said Hardcastle. ‘Did Captain Villiers in fact spend the night of New Year’s Eve with you?’

  Annabel Powell sighed. ‘Of course he bloody well did, Inspector.’

  Once in the street, Hardcastle paused. ‘I’m going back to the office, Marriott. But I want you to call on Mrs Villiers and tell her about Tindall. It’s possible that he might call there. And it would be as well if we posted a man there until Tindall is arrested.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘And take a cab, Marriott.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ And now he’s going to tell me not to forget to take the plate number, thought Marriott.

  ‘And don’t forget to take the plate number,’ said Hardcastle.

  SEVEN