by Graham Ison
‘You can tell me how to get there.’
‘Sure.’ The sergeant took a street atlas from his desk drawer and pointed out the quickest way from the police station to Grove Street.
‘Thanks for your help,’ said Wood. ‘I’ll go round there and see what I can find.’
‘Hope you catch your killer. D’you think it was this Morgan chap?’
‘Couldn’t’ve been,’ said Wood. ‘It happened after Morgan was killed. Apart from telling Mrs Morgan that her first husband’s been murdered, I don’t really know what my guv’nor hopes me to find out by talking to the woman. But once he gets his teeth into a job like this one, he doesn’t let go until he’s got his man dancing on the hangman’s trap.’
The sergeant laughed. ‘I’ve got a guv’nor like that,’ he said.
The two-storied houses in Grove Street were terraced with only a narrow pavement separating them from the roadway. Eight or nine children were playing outside, most of whom, despite the cold weather, were inadequately clothed; some were even barefooted. An urchin with a bowling hoop flew past Wood, shouting some obscenity in the belief that he had right of way. But then some innate sense recognized Wood as a police officer. With a shout of ‘coppers’, the boy and his cohorts disappeared.
Wood ascended the three steps to the front door of the house said by the Brighton sergeant to be Sarah Gosling’s last known address.
From what the police had discovered so far, Sarah Gosling would now be in her mid-fifties, but the woman who answered the door appeared much older. Her grey hair was unkempt and hung around her shoulders in untidy rat’s tails. She wore a cheap and fading black bombazine dress; it was a material that, thanks to Queen Victoria’s prolonged period of mourning, remained unpopular even fifteen years after her death. But Wood presumed that Sarah Gosling was unable to afford anything else.
‘Mrs Gosling?’ asked Wood, raising his bowler hat.
The woman emitted a scornful laugh. ‘I haven’t been known by that name for nigh on ten years. I’m known in these parts as Mrs Morgan, Sarah Morgan. Anyway, who are you and what d’you want?’
‘I’m a police officer from London, madam. Detective Sergeant Wood of the Whitehall Division.’
‘And what might the police be wanting with me?’
‘I think it would be better if I came in, Mrs Morgan.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Sarah churlishly, and turned away, leaving Wood to close the door and follow her.
The parlour, a small, cold room on the front of the house was sparsely furnished. The empty fire grate had been filled with a fan of folded newspaper; it was evident that coal was a luxury Mrs Morgan could not afford. Wood decided against removing his overcoat.
‘I understand that you were once married to Reuben Gosling, Mrs Morgan.’
‘I still am, as far as I know,’ said Sarah. ‘Anyway, what’s it to you?’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that he was murdered on New Year’s Eve.’
That momentous news received no immediate reaction other than a cold stare. ‘Have you come all this way just to tell me that?’ asked Sarah eventually.
‘Not exactly,’ said Wood. ‘I wondered if you knew of any reason why anyone should’ve wanted to kill him.’
‘Quite a few people, I should think,’ was Sarah’s surprising reply. ‘He was a bully and a skinflint, and he sailed a bit close to the wind,’ she continued.
‘What d’you mean by that, Mrs Morgan?’ asked Wood.
‘If you ask me, some of the stuff he had in the shop hadn’t been honest come by, if you know what I mean. Any road, I couldn’t stand it no more and that’s why I left him. My Joe, God rest his soul, was the complete opposite. Always cheerful and always generous. And always ready to give me a good time when he was in funds. Mind you, things got a bit tight once the war started. People haven’t got the money for the sort of stuff Joe was selling. He’d even begun going up London again to see how he’d fare up there. But he was killed in an air raid and left me flat broke.’
‘I understand you had a son,’ said Wood.
‘Isaac,’ said Sarah listlessly, and stared at the empty fireplace. ‘Haven’t seen him in years. For all I know he could be dead and buried in France.’ She pulled her shawl more closely around her shoulders. ‘Not that Isaac was the volunteering sort. Walked out his father’s shadow did Isaac. Just as mean and just as spiteful. He might even be in prison, for all I know. And that’d come as no surprise.’
‘So, you’ve no idea where Isaac might be now, Mrs Morgan.’
‘No. Anyway, why d’you want to know all this?’
‘Because we’re trying to find out who killed your husband,’ said Wood.
‘Are you suggesting that it was Isaac what killed his father?’ Sarah’s expression was one of disbelief.
‘Not at all,’ said Wood, ‘but he might be able to suggest someone who did.’
‘Well, it wasn’t me,’ snapped Sarah, ‘even though I was tempted and had good reasons.’
‘What sort of man was your son, Mrs Morgan?’
Sarah Morgan appeared to give that question some thought before answering. ‘Political,’ she said eventually.
‘In what way?’ asked Wood.
‘He was always banging on about a homeland for the Jews. I’ve no idea why. Perhaps he was going to live in Palestine.’ Sarah emitted a throaty chuckle. ‘Perhaps you ought to go there and see if you can find him.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Morgan,’ said Wood, rising to his feet. ‘I’ll see myself out.’ As he had anticipated, his journey to Brighton had been largely wasted.
It was lunchtime when Hardcastle and Marriott returned to Westminster, and Hardcastle led the way directly to the downstairs bar of the Red Lion.
‘Two pints of best, Albert, and a couple of fourpenny cannons.’
‘Still keeping you busy, Mr Hardcastle?’ asked Albert, placing two glass tankards of best bitter on the counter.
‘Never a dull moment, Albert,’ said the DDI, drinking a good half of his beer, and wiping his moustache with the back of his free hand.
‘We’re still no nearer finding out where Sinclair Villiers was on New Year’s Eve, or on the night that Peter Stein was topped, sir,’ said Marriott, once Albert had moved away to serve another customer.
‘I’m beginning to have serious doubts about our Mr Villiers, Marriott. His butler tells us he was out both those nights, and Rabbi Rosner said he wasn’t with him. So where was he?’
‘Murdering Reuben Gosling, sir?’ suggested Marriott.
‘We’re a long way from proving that,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but Villiers has some serious questions to answer. The trouble is that I want Henwood the butler to keep his position in Villiers’s household. If we let on that he told us that Villiers was out that night, Henwood will get the sack a bit tout de suite, I reckon. And that won’t help us at all.’
‘Well, Wood, what have you to tell me?’ Hardcastle and Marriott emerged from the Red Lion just as DS Wood alighted from a bus that had brought him from Victoria railway station.
‘Largely a waste of time, sir,’ said Wood, and went on to recount the result of his visit to Sarah Morgan in Brighton. ‘She wasn’t the most helpful of witnesses.’
‘And she’d no idea where Isaac Gosling is?’
‘No, sir. She claims not to have seen him in years. She did suggest he’d gone to Palestine, on account of him being interested in a Jewish settlement. But I think that was all pie in the sky.’
‘Not necessarily, Wood,’ said Hardcastle thoughtfully. ‘However, I’ve another job for you.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Find him.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Wood, wondering how on earth he was to trace the missing son of Reuben and Sarah Gosling.
THIRTEEN
On Wednesday morning, Hardcastle arrived at the police station as usual at eight o’clock. As he passed the door of the detectives’ office, he shouted for Marriott. Seating himself behind his desk, he beg
an the morning ritual of filling his pipe.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Marriott.
‘I’ve been thinking, Marriott.’ Hardcastle, rarely one to return a greeting, dropped his tobacco pouch on the desk, reached for his box of matches and leaned back in his chair.
‘Sir?’ Marriott was never very happy when the DDI announced that he was ‘thinking’.
‘Haydn Villiers is locked up in the Tower of London waiting for a court martial.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott was wondering what was coming next.
‘I can’t believe that Sinclair Villiers didn’t have something to do with his son’s espionage.’
‘But we’ve no evidence of that, sir.’
‘Exactly, Marriott. So, we’ll have to go out and find some. But that would mean treading on the toes of Special Branch and they don’t like that. However, Villiers senior was adrift the night that Reuben Gosling was killed and at the time Peter Stein was topped. And I think that that justifies a search warrant.’ Hardcastle paused thoughtfully. ‘Nevertheless, I think I’ll have a word with Mr O’Rourke first.’
‘D’you want me to come with you, sir?’
‘Certainly not, Marriott. I’m quite capable of dealing with Special Branch on my own.’ The truth of the matter was that Hardcastle did not want a junior officer to witness him being made to appear a fool. It was something at which the senior officers of Special Branch seemed more than willing to do when dealing with those they disparagingly referred to as the ordinary CID.
Hardcastle eventually found DCI O’Rourke in his own office.
‘Mr Hardcastle?’ As usual, O’Rourke stared at the DDI with an expression of both surprise and impatience.
‘I thought I should inform you that I intend to apply for a search warrant for Sinclair Villiers’s house in Flood Street, sir.’
‘Why should that be of interest to me or my Branch, Mr Hardcastle?’
‘Sinclair Villiers is the father of Haydn Villiers, now held in the Tower on espionage charges, sir.’
‘That seems to me to be an irrelevancy,’ said O’Rourke. ‘But why d’you want to search this man’s house?’
‘I have reason to believe he might’ve been involved in the death of the pawnbroker Reuben Gosling, sir.’
‘As I said just now, that’s of no interest to me, Mr Hardcastle, but keep me informed of the outcome.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Hardcastle was puzzled as to why O’Rourke should wish to be kept informed about a matter that he had said was of no interest to him or his Branch. But Hardcastle would never understand the machinations of the political branch of the Metropolitan Police. Neither did he wish to understand it; as far as he was concerned Special Branch officers were not real detectives.
What was more, although he was going to apply for a search warrant, he had no intention of executing it unless it became absolutely necessary. He had other plans for acquiring the information he wanted. Plans that would not arouse suspicion.
The moment he returned to his office, Hardcastle sent for Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood.
‘Wood, I want you to pay a visit to your “friend” Henwood the butler at Flood Street. Find out if Villiers is there. If he is, find out when he’s next going away. If Henwood knows, that is.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Wood, turning to go.
‘I haven’t finished yet, Wood,’ growled Hardcastle. ‘If he ain’t there, find out when he’s likely to be back and telephone Sergeant Marriott a bit jildi. You can use Villiers’s telephone. Sergeant Marriott will tell you what to do next. And take a cab.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Wood, amazed that the DDI had authorized the use of a taxi. He was usually as parsimonious with the Commissioner’s money as he was with his own.
Wood descended the area steps of Sinclair Villiers’s Flood Street house, knocked loudly and waited.
Eventually, a young girl peered round the half open door, a frightened expression on her face. ‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Is Mr Henwood about? I’m Bert Wood, a friend of his.’
‘You’d better come in. He’s in the servants’ hall.’
Removing his cloth cap, Wood stepped over the threshold just as the butler came to the door.
Henwood turned to the young girl who had admitted Wood. ‘Don’t stand there gawping, Violet,’ he said, ‘get about your duties.’
‘Yes, Mr Henwood,’ said Violet, and fled back to the kitchen.
‘That kitchen maid’s all ears,’ said Henwood. ‘You’d better come into the pantry,’ he added, clearly in a hurry to get Wood away from the inquisitive eyes of the other servants.
‘Thanks, Wilf,’ said Wood. If the foreshortening of the butler’s name displeased him, he was at pains to disguise it.
Once in the butler’s pantry, Henwood closed the door firmly. ‘What d’you want?’ he asked, his voice almost a whisper. ‘It’s not a good idea, you coming here.’
‘Is Villiers at home?’ asked Wood.
‘No, he’s gone to Worthing,’ said Henwood. ‘Went last night. Makes a change for him to tell me where he was going.’
‘When’s he coming back?’
‘He’ll be there until Monday morning. At least, that’s what he said.’
‘What’s he doing there?’
Henwood smirked. ‘Giving that fancy woman of his a seeing-to most likely.’
‘How d’you know that’s where he’s gone?’
‘Butlers know everything, Mr Wood.’
‘If you know everything, you’ll know who she is and where she lives.’ Wood was always ready to acquire any information that came to hand, even though it might appear to have no bearing on the current case.
‘Well, I did happen to come across the address when I was in the master’s room packing for him.’
Wood laughed derisively. ‘Yes, I’ll bet you did, just by accident, eh? Doesn’t he have a valet, then?’
Henwood scoffed. ‘Not him. I’m surprised he’s got any staff at all. He’s a skinflint, and a bastard to work for.’
‘You’d better give me a note of the name and address, Wilf.’ Wood handed over his pocketbook and Henwood scribbled down the address. ‘And I need to use your telephone.’
‘It’s there,’ said Henwood, pointing to the polished wooden box on the wall near the door. ‘Take the receiver off the hook and wind the handle.’
‘I do know how to use a telephone.’ A few moments later Wood was receiving instructions from Marriott at Cannon Row police station.
‘Get through all right?’ asked Henwood.
‘Yes thanks. Now then, Wilf, I’ve got news for you. You had a burglary here last night.’
‘No we didn’t.’
‘Well, I’m telling you that you did. I want you to give me a couple of small bits of your master’s jewellery: something like cufflinks, an albert and a tiepin will do. And don’t let any of the staff see you. And you never told the staff about the burglary because you didn’t want to worry ’em. That phone call I just made was you telephoning Cannon Row police station to report the burglary. Have you got all that?’
‘But shouldn’t I have informed Chelsea police station?’ asked Henwood, totally bemused by this turn of events. ‘That’s the one that covers this area.’
‘Probably, but let’s pretend that you didn’t know that. You just called the police station that you first thought of, and that was because officers from that station called here the other day in connection with the theft of your master’s motor car.’
‘But what’s the point of all this?’ asked Henwood, who was only just managing to keep up with Wood’s instructions.
‘The point, Wilf, old son, is that officers will attend here very shortly to investigate this burglary and miraculously find the jewellery in the garden.’
‘Why?’ asked Henwood. ‘I don’t understand what this is all about.’
Wood chuckled. ‘You don’t need to understand it.’
‘I don’t know as how I can go along with a
ll this,’ complained the butler. ‘What if Mr Villiers finds out? I’ve got my position to think of, you know.’
‘You’ll go along with it all right, Wilf, unless you want to finish up in Pentonville nick again. Right now, your “position”, as you call it, is hanging by a thread.’
The moment that Hardcastle had learned that Villiers was away from home until Monday, he sent Marriott across to the Yard to explain to DI Collins what he wanted of him. Collins assigned Detective Sergeant Locke, ‘one of the best skippers in Fingerprint Bureau’, to accompany Hardcastle to Flood Street.
Thirty minutes later, Hardcastle, Marriott and Locke alighted from a taxi outside Sinclair Villiers’s house.
In accordance with Wood’s suggestion, the three officers descended the basement area.
Henwood, a worried expression on his face, answered the door.
‘I don’t like this at all, Inspector.’
‘You’re not meant to, Henwood.’ Hardcastle glanced at Wood. ‘All right, Wood, hand over the tom and then bugger off. I don’t want you compromising your position. Not that I think we’ll need to worry about that for much longer.’
Wood handed the DDI the few items of Villiers’s possessions that had been given him by Henwood less than an hour ago, and promptly made his way back to Cannon Row.
‘Now, Henwood, I’ve come to investigate this burglary of yours.’
‘I don’t like this at all, sir,’ said the butler again.
‘Just be quiet, Henwood, and show us to your master’s bedroom. We’ll do the rest.’ Hardcastle handed over the items of jewellery that he had received from Wood moments earlier. ‘We found these in the garden,’ he said with a laugh. ‘You can put ’em back where you took ’em from.’
‘But what’s the point of this, sir?’ Henwood was now a very worried man caught, as he was, between the threats of Hardcastle and the fury of his employer.
Hardcastle sighed, realizing that he would have to tell the butler of his plans. ‘I have reason to believe that your master may have committed a serious offence, Henwood, and I need to get his fingerprints without him knowing. If they’re not his, then he’s in the clear. Now show me up to his bedroom and his dressing room.’