Hardcastle's Traitors

by Graham Ison

  ‘I’m much obliged to you, Doctor,’ said Hardcastle.

  At a quarter past four, when Hardcastle was in the process of metaphorically tearing one of Catto’s reports to pieces, Detective Inspector Charles Collins almost bounced into the DDI’s office.

  ‘They tally, Ernie,’ he said, sitting down in one of Hardcastle’s chairs and opening a folder.

  ‘What tally, Charlie?’ Hardcastle put the cap on his fountain pen.

  ‘The prints I found at Bow Road are a match for the prints I found in Villiers’s Haxe-Doulton down at Wandsworth,’ said Collins. ‘An unknown set were on the steering wheel, and Peter Stein’s were on the dashboard. And I found Stein’s in Gosling’s shop,’ he added triumphantly.

  ‘All I need to do now, Charlie, is to find the man whose prints you couldn’t identify.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Collins gloomily. ‘There’s nothing in my records that’s a match. Looks as though he’s kept his nose clean up to now. If there’s anything else I can help you with, Ernie, you know where to find me.’

  ‘There’s one thing that’s vexing me in all this business, Marriott.’ Following DI Collins’s departure, Hardcastle leaned back in his chair and began to fill his pipe.

  ‘What’s that, sir?’ There was, in fact, more than one thing puzzling Marriott about the murders of Reuben Gosling and Peter Stein.

  ‘Why was Sinclair Villiers’s car used in the robbery and murder at Gosling’s shop?’

  ‘A coincidence, sir?’

  ‘Coincidence my arse,’ exclaimed Hardcastle vehemently. ‘Haydn Villiers is up for a court martial for selling out to the bloody Germans. And it looks as though the information he passed to Benoit, the Jewish farmer in France, was sent on to Stein. And Stein finished up dead. Where’s the coincidence in that, Marriott?’

  ‘D’you think that Sinclair Villiers lent his car to the killers, sir?’

  ‘Either that or he’s the owner of the fingerprints that Mr Collins can’t identify.’

  ‘There’s not much we can do about that, sir. Anyway, we know that Villiers was at home for all of New Year’s Eve. In fact, he said that Henwood the butler woke him at just after seven o’clock the next morning.’

  ‘But do we know that for sure, Marriott?’

  ‘Villiers’s butler said that his master was at home all night, sir. And he claimed to have noticed that the car had disappeared at about the time he took Villiers his tea the next morning.’

  ‘Of course he did,’ said Hardcastle. ‘If Henwood didn’t back up his master, Villiers would likely give him the sack. And that’d mean that Henwood would be in the trenches before you could say Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘So what do we do now, sir?’

  ‘We get Henwood on his own and scare the living daylights out of him, Marriott, that’s what we do,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘But won’t Sinclair Villiers kick up a fuss, sir? He’s got plenty of money and could probably afford to brief an expensive lawyer, even to defend his butler.’

  Hardcastle laughed. ‘D’you see anything wrong in requiring Henwood to come to the nick to make a statement about the loss of Sinclair Villiers’s motor car, Marriott?’ He paused. ‘But Monday morning will do for that. Go home and take tomorrow off.’

  TEN

  Although Hardcastle had his newspaper delivered on weekdays, he preferred to walk down to Horace Boxall’s corner shop on a Sunday morning to buy the News of the World.

  Unbidden, Boxall placed a copy of the newspaper on the counter. ‘There’s some good news in there today, Mr Hardcastle,’ he said, pointing at an article on the front page.

  ‘That makes a change, Horace. What’s happened?’

  ‘They’ve brought all our lads off the Gallipoli peninsula, together with the Aussies and the New Zealanders. According to this, they spirited ’em away under Johnny Turk’s nose and he never even noticed. At least, not until the booby traps that our lads had set started to go off.’

  ‘Good news indeed,’ commented Hardcastle, thinking that Tom Sawyer, the DDI at Bow Road, would be pleased. Provided, of course, that Sawyer’s son was one of those who had been evacuated safely.

  ‘But at what a cost, Mr Hardcastle. Two hundred and fifty thousand casualties since the campaign started last April.’

  ‘It was a hare-brained idea to start with, and all for nothing,’ complained Hardcastle. ‘I’ll have an ounce of St Bruno and a box of Swan Vestas, as well, Horace, if you please.’

  Boxall placed the tobacco and the matches on top of the newspaper. ‘I see the House of Commons voted overwhelmingly in favour of conscription last Thursday. According to the Daily Herald, Sir John Simon, the Home Secretary, resigned over it.’

  ‘You don’t read that Labour Party rag, Horace, surely?’

  ‘No, but I sell it. Not that the Herald’s a daily any more; only comes out once a week. I can’t see it lasting out the war. Mind you, I’ve still got a few customers who buy it.’

  ‘It’s about time some of the scrimshankers were rounded up, Horace,’ said Hardcastle. ‘A chap who lived a few doors up from me was killed last week in Ypres. Left a wife and six children. God knows how they’ll manage because the pension she’ll get won’t feed and house ’em. But all these young single men are still loafing about. It’s time they were getting in amongst the muck and bullets.’

  ‘It’s a wicked old world, Mr H,’ said Boxall, handing Hardcastle his change.

  For the remainder of Sunday, Hardcastle, tiring of the more depressing news in the Sunday paper, absent-mindedly mooned about the house. Frequently admonished by Alice for getting in her way, he was fretting about the Gosling and Stein murders, and would rather have been at his office. But he realized that there was little he could do, even if he were there.

  Hardcastle arrived at the police station at eight o’clock on Monday morning, tired rather than refreshed by an idle and frustrating weekend. All that he had done was to replace a washer on the kitchen tap, and that only after repeated nagging by his wife; but Alice had been complaining for weeks about it dripping and leaving a brown stain in the sink.

  He spent several minutes sitting at the station officer’s desk, perusing the occurrence book. One entry caused him to chuckle. A man had been beaten up by a group of prostitutes in Great Peter Street after he had assaulted one of their number in a dispute over payment. Three of the women had then sat on him while one of the others called the police. When the assailant was eventually taken into custody by a constable, he was found to be a deserter from the Connaught Rangers.

  ‘That’ll teach him to mix it with Westminster whores, Skipper. He’ll probably be shot at dawn, and all because he argued about the price of a tumble with a tart.’ Hardcastle closed the occurrence book and mounted the stairs to his office, shouting for Marriott as he passed the door to the detectives’ room.

  ‘What’s happened about getting Henwood, Villiers’s butler, in here, Marriott?’

  ‘I’ve sent Bert Wood to bring him in, sir. He can be very persuasive when the mood takes him.’

  Hardcastle nodded his approval; he knew that Detective Sergeant Wood was a tenacious officer. ‘I’m sure he won’t be put off by Sinclair Villiers or his hoity-toity manservant, Marriott. When did he go?’

  ‘About ten minutes ago, sir. I told him to take a cab.’

  ‘Yes?’ Henwood scathingly appraised the man standing on the doorstep of Villiers’s Flood Street house, and deduced from his appearance that he was probably an ex-serviceman down on his luck. ‘You should’ve gone down the area steps and knocked on the servants’ door,’ he said.

  ‘Is your name Henwood, mate?’ Detective Sergeant Wood knew exactly how to deal with butlers who had ideas above their station.

  ‘Yes, it is, if it’s any of your business.’

  ‘I’m a police officer and I need you to come to Cannon Row police station with me.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ demanded Henwood, maintaining his lofty attitude.

  ‘To make a statement r
egarding the theft of your employer’s car.’

  ‘My dear man,’ said Henwood, waving a hand as if to dismiss the sergeant, ‘I can’t just leave my post simply to comply with some whim of the police. It’ll have to be at some other time. I’ll telephone your station to make an appointment if you think it’s absolutely necessary.’

  ‘Oh, you will, will you, Henwood? I’d remind you that we are dealing with a brutal murder and, like it or not, the demands of your employer will have to take second place.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid it’s not possible to abandon my duties at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘In that case, I suggest you tell Mr Villiers that your presence is required forthwith. I’m sure that as a law-abiding citizen, Mr Villiers would be only too glad to know that one of his servants was assisting the police.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ said Henwood, with an expression bordering on a smirk. ‘Mr Villiers is not at home.’

  ‘Oh? Where’s he gone, then?’ Wood immediately suspected that Sinclair Villiers had disappeared for a reason, and he was certain that the DDI would be interested to know where he had gone.

  ‘I have no idea,’ responded Henwood with a lofty disdain. ‘Mr Villiers only said that he would be away for a few days. He does not vouchsafe his arrangements to me, and it’s not my place to ask.’

  ‘Are there no other servants here, then?’ asked Wood.

  ‘Of course there are. There’s a footman, a housekeeper, a cook, a house parlourmaid and a kitchen maid.’

  ‘Then I suggest you tell them where you’ve gone. I’m quite sure they’re capable of looking after the house for an hour or so in your absence. Particularly as Mr Villiers isn’t here.’ Wood paused. ‘Unless you fancy having me arrest you for obstructing a police officer in the execution of his duty.’

  ‘Arrest me!’ Henwood’s voice rose, a mixture of outrage and disbelief. And a frisson of fear.

  ‘Don’t think I won’t, Mister.’

  The expression of determination on Wood’s face convinced Henwood that he was serious. The superior attitude vanished and the butler caved in. ‘I’ll just get my hat and coat.’ Moments later, the butler reappeared on the doorstep attired in a melton cloth overcoat and a bowler hat.

  ‘Henwood is downstairs in the interview room, sir,’ said Wood, standing in the doorway of the DDI’s office.

  ‘Any trouble, Wood?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘No, sir. He kicked up a bit of a fuss, but after a short discussion I persuaded him that it’d be in his best interests to come with me.’

  ‘I’m sure you can be very persuasive when the occasion demands it, Wood,’ said Hardcastle, with something approaching a smile.

  ‘There’s something else, sir. Sinclair Villiers isn’t at home. Henwood said he’d gone away for a few days, but claimed that he didn’t know where.’

  ‘That’s very interesting, Wood,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Right, carry on.’ Once Wood had returned to the detectives’ office, the DDI considered the implications of Villiers’s disappearance. ‘That damned man Villiers has something to hide, Marriott,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘but I reckon he’s so bloody confident that he decided it was safe for him to take a holiday.’

  ‘It might be quite innocent, sir,’ said Marriott, who had yet to be convinced of any culpability on Villiers’s part.

  ‘Innocent my foot,’ muttered Hardcastle, and picked up his pipe from the ashtray. ‘We’ll go down and see what his retainer has to say for himself.’

  ‘It’s very cold in here,’ said Henwood, when Hardcastle and Marriott entered the interview room. The butler was still wearing his overcoat.

  ‘Seems all right to me,’ said Hardcastle, as he took a seat. ‘I understand from my sergeant that you were reluctant to come here, Henwood.’

  ‘Only my master calls me Henwood,’ said the butler. ‘Below stairs I’m called Mister Henwood.’ The implication was that Hardcastle sprung from a class more likely to be found in the servants’ hall than in the drawing room.

  ‘Well, you’re not below stairs now,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘You’re in a police station. My police station. Why were you so anxious to avoid seeing me?’

  ‘I have my duties and responsibilities,’ said Henwood, maintaining his customary arrogance.

  ‘Even when your boss is away?’ Hardcastle examined the butler with an amused expression.

  ‘The household still has to be run and the staff supervised, whether my master is in residence or not.’

  ‘When did he go?’

  ‘Last Thursday,’ said Henwood, after a pause.

  ‘And where did he go?’ Hardcastle was immediately aware that Thursday was the day before Peter Stein’s murder, but made no comment.

  ‘He doesn’t tell me such things. As I told your man.’

  ‘I’m going to put some questions to you, Henwood, and I advise you to think very carefully before you answer. Because if you lie to me, and your master’s committed a crime, you’ll go down with him for conspiracy. And they rather fancy hoity-toity butlers in His Majesty’s prisons. And Mr Sinclair bloody Villiers won’t help you once you’re in there, neither.’

  For the first time since his encounter with Sinclair Villiers’s butler, Hardcastle was pleased to see that the man was extremely discomfited by that remark. And his next comment confirmed his disquiet.

  ‘I dunno know what you mean, guv’nor.’ Suddenly Henwood’s assumed refined accent vanished along with his superior attitude. ‘I ain’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘Where d’you come from, Henwood?’ asked Hardcastle, intrigued by the butler’s sudden reversion to type.

  ‘Hoxton,’ said Henwood.

  ‘I thought so. I walked a beat there years ago,’ said Hardcastle, pausing to light his pipe. ‘Now perhaps we can get down to brass tacks.’

  But before the DDI could begin, DS Wood appeared in the doorway of the interview room.

  ‘What is it, Wood?’ asked Hardcastle sharply. He disliked being interrupted during an interrogation, and his detectives knew it. It must be something important for Wood to have broken that rule.

  ‘I thought you’d like to have a look at this before you go any further, sir.’ Wood handed the DDI a file. ‘I did a search in records and this is what I found.’

  Hardcastle opened the slim folder and spent a few moments reading its contents.

  ‘Well done, Wood.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ It was not often that the DDI paid Wood a compliment or, for that matter, anyone else. Not that Wood was impressed by the blandishments of a senior officer; he realized that a good reputation only lasted until the next mistake. ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  ‘Yes, carry on, Wood.’

  During this exchange, Henwood’s apprehension increased. He was now white in the face and his hands were clasped tightly together on the interview room table. He sensed what was coming next.

  ‘So, Wilfred Henwood, you’re a thief.’ Hardcastle closed the file and stared at the butler.

  ‘I can explain, sir,’ said Henwood, now thoroughly cowed by Hardcastle’s statement.

  ‘That’d be a start,’ said Hardcastle. ‘According to this file from the Criminal Records Office, you were convicted of stealing from your employer on the seventh of June 1912, and sentenced to three months at Rochester Row police court.’

  ‘It was all a terrible mistake, sir.’

  ‘Oh, it undoubtedly was, Henwood. On your part for getting caught. You stole money while in trusted employment as a butler and you call that a terrible mistake?’

  ‘It was the horses, sir.’

  ‘Ah!’ Hardcastle leaned back in his chair and spent a few moments relighting his pipe. ‘Did you hear that, Marriott?’ he enquired sarcastically. ‘It was the horses. Isn’t it strange that when it comes down to an excuse, there’s always a horse or two at the end of it?’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘Very strange.’

  ‘I had a run of bad luck, and I owed the bookies a fa
ir sum,’ said Henwood desperately. ‘It was the only way I could get out of trouble. Bookies can turn very nasty when you owe them.’

  ‘And you presumably got no character from the employer you stole from, Henwood?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Henwood miserably.

  ‘So how did you obtain your present post?’

  Henwood remained silent, and looked down at the table.

  ‘So there we have it, Marriott. Our Wilfred Henwood has undoubtedly committed the offence of furnishing Mr Villiers with a false character reference.’ Hardcastle turned his attention to the butler. ‘And that, Henwood, is an offence under the Servants’ Characters Act of 1792. Very handy, these old statutes, don’t you think, Marriott?’ he added with a chuckle.

  ‘It was the only way I could get another post, sir,’ whined Henwood. ‘And I suppose you’ll tell Mr Villiers now.’

  ‘Setting that aside for a moment, Henwood, let’s talk about New Year’s Eve, and we’ll see if we can’t come to an arrangement, so to speak. But for a start, let’s see if your memory’s returned. Where has Villiers gone?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, sir. He comes and goes in that motor car of his, and never tells anyone what he’s up to.’ Even then, Henwood was only telling half the truth.

  ‘When I called at Flood Street on New Year’s Day, Henwood, you told me that you hadn’t left the house since the day before, and neither had your master. D’you want to think about that again?’

  ‘I could get the sack for this, Inspector.’

  ‘You probably will anyway,’ said Hardcastle mildly, ‘especially if your master finds out about your false reference.’ It was a veiled threat that did little to boost Henwood’s flagging morale.

  ‘He went out at about eight o’clock on New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘And when did he return?’

  ‘I don’t know. The master has his own key, and I went to bed at about half-past midnight. After the cook and I had drunk a toast to the New Year.’

  ‘No doubt with a bottle from the master’s wine cellar,’ observed Hardcastle drily. ‘Have you any idea where Villiers went?’

  ‘No, sir, but he was back home the next day. As I said before, he never tells me anything. It makes it very difficult for the staff, not knowing whether he’ll be in for meals or not.’