Hardcastle's Traitors

by Graham Ison

  ‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Victoria Wheeler, holding her cigarette holder aloft as her face expressed concern. ‘Not here in sleepy old Esher, surely?’

  ‘No, madam, in London.’ Hardcastle directed a plume of smoke towards the ceiling.

  ‘Oh, what a disappointment. Nothing like that ever happens here. Actually, the only exciting thing to have happened in the last couple of years was when our curate ran off with the wife of one of his parishioners.’ Victoria Wheeler giggled and fingered a gold neck chain that caught the glimmer of the fire’s flames, enhancing the marble-whiteness of her skin. ‘How can you possibly think that I can help you, then?’

  ‘I don’t want to weary you with the details, Mrs Wheeler,’ said Hardcastle, realizing that he had to be somewhat circumspect in his questioning, ‘but the name of Sinclair Villiers came up in the course of our enquiries. His butler, a very unreliable fellow in my view, suggested that Mr Villiers was a friend of yours, and sometimes visited you.’

  ‘How intriguing.’ Victoria Wheeler looked Hardcastle straight in the eye. ‘I do have one or two gentlemen admirers, Inspector, but your Mr Villiers doesn’t feature among them. What sort of age is this man?’

  ‘He’s about fifty or so, I’m led to believe.’

  ‘Much too old,’ said Victoria, dismissing the prospect with a gay laugh. But then she stopped abruptly. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that being someone of that age is old, Inspector, but that he would be too old to interest me. In fact, my father is about the same age.’

  ‘This butler fellow also claimed that you and your late husband – Major James Wheeler, I believe – were family friends of Mr Villiers.’ Hardcastle had decided to put all the blame for his story on Henwood, rather than complicating the conversation by mentioning the other Mrs Wheeler.

  ‘James was certainly my husband, but he was killed at Givenchy at the beginning of the war, so that would be impossible. I’m sorry, Inspector, but Mr Villiers’s butler must be confusing me with someone else.’

  ‘So it would seem, Mrs Wheeler, and I apologize for having troubled you,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott stood up. ‘But these matters have to be followed up, especially in so serious a case as a double murder.’

  ‘I quite understand, Inspector.’ Mrs Wheeler rose and once again shook hands. She crossed to a bell pull and summoned the butler. ‘These officers are leaving now, Cross.’

  ‘Very good, madam. This way, if you please, gentlemen.’ When they reached the front door, the butler asked, ‘May I call you a cab, sir?’

  ‘No thank you, Cross,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I asked my cab to wait.’ Firmly believing that his interview with Mrs Wheeler would not take long, he had had the foresight not to dismiss the taxi.

  ‘Very wise, sir,’ commented the butler.

  Less than hour after arriving, he and Marriott were back on a train bound for London.

  ‘I think I’m going to have to tread carefully, Marriott, because this whole business seems to be developing into a matter that Special Branch ought to be dealing with.’ Hardcastle would have been quite content to pursue his enquiries on his own, but he had tangled with the political branch before, and it was not a pleasant experience. And it was particularly inadvisable to make an enemy of Superintendent Patrick Quinn. He took out his hunter. ‘Half past six. I suppose Mr Quinn might still be there.’

  Marriott was surprised at the DDI’s decision. He knew from past experience that Hardcastle was loath to have dealings with Special Branch.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Hardcastle?’ Superintendent Quinn was standing by the hatstand in his office. Already clad in a raincoat, and holding his top hat and umbrella, he was on the point of leaving.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you so late, sir, but a matter has arisen that I think is urgent and may be of interest to Special Branch.’

  ‘I see. Well, make it as quick as you can. I have another appointment.’

  As succinctly as he was able, Hardcastle explained the curious matter of the bogus Victoria Wheeler in Worthing and her association with Sinclair Villiers. He mentioned also the sudden disappearance of Villiers and, finally, he reported the outcome of his interview with the real Mrs Wheeler in Esher.

  ‘You’d better sit down, Mr Hardcastle.’ Quinn placed his top hat on a bookcase, and took off his raincoat, his appointment forgotten.

  Hardcastle went on to remind Quinn of the murder of Peter Stein in Bow and that he was aware that a Morse code transmitter had been removed by Special Branch detectives.

  ‘How did you know that?’ demanded Quinn, his bushy eyebrows lifting in surprise.

  ‘The DDI at Bow Road told me, sir.’

  ‘Did he indeed,’ responded Quinn crossly, but the impression was one of irritation with his own men for making that information known to the Bow Road police.

  ‘I presume that the equipment was examined for fingerprints, sir, and I was wondering whether Sinclair Villiers’s were found anywhere on the machine.’

  ‘We don’t happen to have Villiers’s fingerprints,’ Quinn reluctantly admitted.

  ‘I do, sir, or at least, Mr Collins has them.’ Hardcastle explained the subterfuge he had employed in order to obtain those prints.

  ‘I’m beginning to think that you’re quite a resourceful officer, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Quinn, affording the DDI a rare smile. ‘In that case, I shall arrange to have the equipment examined forthwith. In the meantime, I shall inform MI5 of what you have discovered. In fact, I think you might have uncovered more of the espionage network that we were already familiar with. But we will have to move quickly if we are to arrest this Mrs Wheeler. The Mrs Wheeler in Worthing, of course, not the one in Esher.’ He paused. ‘Although I fear we may be too late.’

  ‘Will you require my assistance, sir?’

  ‘I most certainly will, Mr Hardcastle, given that you know what she looks like,’ said Quinn. ‘You weren’t thinking of going home, were you?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Hardcastle had been intending to do just that, but deemed it politic to make himself available for further duty. ‘I have my sergeant standing by, as well, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ said Quinn. He pressed a bell-push on his desk and seconds later an officer appeared. ‘Ah, Mr Strange, this is DDI Hardcastle of A.’

  ‘Detective Inspector John Strange, sir,’ said the officer as he shook hands.

  ‘Mr Strange, get hold of Mr O’Rourke, wherever he happens to be,’ said Quinn, ‘and Sergeants Shaughnessy and Colter and Detective Constable Lacey. I want to see them here immediately.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And bring me a form for an OSA written order.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I propose to go to Worthing immediately, Mr Hardcastle, and search this house,’ said Quinn, once Strange had departed, ‘and I want you and your sergeant to accompany me and my officers.’

  ‘But won’t you need a search warrant, sir?’ asked Hardcastle, somewhat bewildered by the speed at which Quinn was moving things along.

  ‘I shall sign a superintendent’s written order to search under the Official Secrets Act of 1911, Mr Hardcastle. That was the form I just asked Strange to bring me.’

  Within minutes of Quinn’s summons, his office seemed to be full of officers.

  ‘I’ll get Mr Hardcastle here to explain what he’s discovered,’ said Quinn, ‘and then I’ll tell you what I propose to do about it.’

  Hardcastle repeated the details of his discovery and was pleased to see that the assembled Special Branch officers were taking a keen interest.

  ‘We shall now go to Worthing and conduct a search of this woman’s house,’ said Quinn. ‘But first, I must give Mr Collins instructions.’ He picked up the receiver of his telephone, tapped the rest sharply and asked to be connected to the officer in charge of the Fingerprint Bureau. Having told Collins to make an urgent comparison of Sinclair Villiers’s prints with any on the Morse code equipment, he stood up. ‘You ought to get a telephone in your office, Mr Har
dcastle,’ he suggested. ‘A very useful piece of equipment.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Hardcastle, deeming it unwise to say that he regarded the telephone as an infernal instrument that would not last.

  Strange returned with the form that Quinn had requested. Scribbling his signature on the document, he handed it to O’Rourke.

  ‘One more thing, Mr Strange. Arrange for a message to be sent to all ports regarding Sinclair Villiers. He is to be detained if he attempts to leave the country.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Strange.

  ‘Although God knows where he’d go in time of war,’ added Quinn.

  As the result of a telephone call to Basil Thomson, the Assistant Commissioner for Crime, Superintendent Quinn had been afforded the immediate use of two high-powered motor cars. Consequently, Hardcastle, Marriott and the group of SB officers arrived at West Parade, Worthing at nine o’clock that evening. By that time it was pitch dark and pouring with rain.

  Having sent Shaughnessy and Lacey to the back of the house to guard against any possible escape by its occupants, Quinn, accompanied by Hardcastle, O’Rourke, Strange, Marriott and Colter, marched up to the front door and hammered loudly. There was no reply.

  ‘Break in, Mr Strange,’ said Quinn.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Strange took his detective’s stave from his pocket and smashed the glass panel in the front door. Putting his hand through the gap, he undid the Yale rim lock and opened the door.

  Quinn led the other officers into the house. They were greeted by a loud scream, and were confronted by a young girl cowering at the back of the hall.

  ‘Calm yourself, miss,’ said Quinn. ‘We’re police officers. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Sarah, the maid, sir,’ said the girl who, understandably, had been terrified by the sound of breaking glass and the fearsome sight of the bearded, top-hatted Quinn leading other officers into the house from the darkness.

  ‘Why didn’t you answer the door, colleen?’ asked Quinn gently.

  ‘The mistress told me not to answer the door to anyone, sir.’

  ‘And where is your mistress? I presume you’re talking about Mrs Victoria Wheeler.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but she’s gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’ Sarah suddenly recognized Hardcastle and pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘It was just after that gentleman had left this morning that she went, sir.’

  ‘That comes as no surprise,’ murmured Hardcastle.

  ‘Did she take anything with her, Sarah?’ asked Quinn.

  ‘She threw a few clothes into a suitcase, sir, and asked me to call a cab for her.’

  ‘Did you know where this cab was taking her?’

  ‘No, sir, she never said.’

  Addressing Shaughnessy, who had now joined the group of police officers, Quinn said, ‘Get on to the cab company and find out where they took Mrs Wheeler.’ He turned to the maid. ‘Tell this sergeant which cab company you called, young lady, and show him where he can find the telephone.’

  Minutes later, Shaughnessy returned. ‘The cab driver took Mrs Wheeler to West Worthing railway station, sir. But he didn’t know where she was going from there.’

  ‘Get down to the station, Shaughnessy, and see if you can find out where Mrs Wheeler went,’ said Quinn. ‘Mr Hardcastle will give you a description. In the meantime,’ he added, addressing O’Rourke, ‘I want this house thoroughly searched.’

  The maid looked extremely worried at this turn of events. ‘What shall I tell the mistress when she returns, sir?’

  ‘I think it’s safe to assume that she won’t be returning, lass,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Where d’you live, Sarah?’ asked Quinn.

  ‘Why, here, sir. I live in.’

  ‘Yes, but where are your folks?’

  ‘Oh, I see. At Lancing, sir.’

  ‘The best thing you can do is to take your belongings and go home. And use the telephone to call a cab for yourself.’ Quinn gave the girl half a crown. ‘That should cover the fare,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, thank you ever so much, sir,’ said Sarah, and bobbed a curtsy.

  Hardcastle was amazed by this brief insight into Quinn’s character. In his previous dealings with the Special Branch chief, he had always seen him as an austere and rather unforgiving individual.

  ‘But what about the house, sir?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘There’s no need for you to worry about that, lass.’

  ‘Are you sure it’ll be all right, sir?’

  ‘Don’t fret yourself now, Sarah,’ said Quinn. ‘We’ll make sure it’s secure once we’ve finished here. One more thing, before you depart. Did your mistress ever go anywhere on a regular basis?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She went to Shoreham harbour about once a month, sir. I always had to call a cab for her.’

  ‘D’you know why she went there?’

  Sarah looked embarrassed at the question. ‘I think she might’ve had a gentleman friend there, sir.’

  ‘Did she say as much?’ asked Quinn.

  Sarah looked down at the floor, a guilty expression on her face, and twisted her hands together. ‘No, sir, I just assumed she must’ve been seeing an admirer.’

  ‘What about Mr Villiers? Was he one of Mrs Wheeler’s admirers?’

  ‘I think so, sir. Mr Villiers was often here. He used to come and stay the weekend, but only when the major was away.’

  ‘And was the major here last weekend, Sarah?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘No, sir. In fact I’ve never seen him. The mistress said he was in the army and couldn’t get leave.’

  ‘Off you go, then, Sarah,’ said Quinn, ‘and don’t tell anyone what we’re doing here, even your family. It’s secret government work.’

  ‘Of course not, sir,’ said Sarah, seemingly much impressed by this latest instruction.

  ‘I’ll leave you to oversee the search, Mr O’Rourke,’ said Quinn, once Sarah had disappeared to start packing. ‘Mr Hardcastle and I will be in the drawing room.’

  ‘Perhaps my Sergeant Marriott could assist your officers, sir,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I still have two murders to solve and he might come across something of use to me in my investigation.’

  ‘Yes, of course. In my line of work, Mr Hardcastle, one tends to overlook mundane things like murders.’ Quinn walked through to the drawing room and seated himself in a leather armchair.

  It was eleven o’clock that evening by the time that Chief Inspector O’Rourke’s team of searchers had finished.

  ‘We found this, sir.’ O’Rourke entered the drawing room holding a talcum powder tin, a pen and half a dozen sheets of paper. ‘The talcum powder tin was in the bathroom, and the sheets of paper were secreted behind several pictures on the upstairs landing.’

  ‘Sounds a bit amateurish,’ commented Quinn, ‘if it’s what I think it is.’

  ‘It is, sir, yes,’ said O’Rourke.

  ‘It’s a talcum powder tin converted to take invisible ink, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Quinn, seeing the DDI’s bemused expression. ‘And, if we’re lucky, there’ll be evidence of spying when we have the sheets of paper developed.’

  ‘I thought that was storybook stuff, sir,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘The simplest methods are often the best,’ commented Quinn. ‘Truth is often stranger than fiction,’ he added.

  ‘I’ll arrange to have these sheets of paper examined immediately, sir,’ said O’Rourke. ‘There might be something useful on them.’

  ‘We can but hope,’ said Quinn. ‘Let me know the result as soon as you have it.’

  ‘I’ll put it in hand the moment we get back to the Yard, sir.’

  Quinn stood up. ‘I think we’ve done all we can do here,’ he said, and walked out to the hall where the remainder of his team were gathered. ‘Colter, you and Shaughnessy, when he returns from the railway station, will stay here in Worthing and follow up what the maid told us about Mrs Wheeler’s monthly visits to Shoreham harbour. Tell Shaughnessy to t
elephone me the moment he has any information about where Mrs Wheeler went after the cab delivered her to the station. I shall return to London with everyone else.’

  ‘Anything of interest to us, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘No, sir, nothing to indicate any connection with the murders of Gosling and Stein.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be too sure about that, Sergeant,’ said Quinn.

  Superintendent Quinn and his team arrived back at Scotland Yard at gone midnight.

  The moment Quinn entered his office, the duty inspector appeared. ‘Shaughnessy telephoned about half an hour ago, sir. He said that a woman matching Mrs Wheeler’s description booked a first-class ticket to Godalming in Surrey.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Quinn. ‘Contact the police there and ask them to check with local cab companies. They might be able to tell us where Mrs Wheeler went from there, although I hold out little hope.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the duty inspector.

  ‘I’ll see you here at half past eight tomorrow morning, Mr Hardcastle. I’ll speak to the assistant commissioner and ask for you to be temporarily attached to Special Branch. Good night to you.’

  FIFTEEN

  ‘I believe that you’ve previously interviewed Sinclair Villiers’s butler, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Quinn, when the DDI reported to him on Friday morning.

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ve had several dealings with Henwood. He’s an unsavoury character, and he has a previous conviction for larceny. He stole from his then employer in June 1912 and was sent down for three months.’

  ‘How then did he obtain his present post as butler?’ Quinn raised a querying eyebrow.

  ‘By means of a false character reference, sir,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Quinn, rubbing his hands together. ‘Then I suggest you arrest him for that offence. And in the unlikely event that Sinclair Villiers is there, you can arrest him too.’

  ‘What charge do you suggest for Villiers, sir?’

  ‘Oh, something under the Defence of the Realm Act, I should think,’ said Quinn airily. ‘That covers most things, and it’ll do until we find something substantive that we are able to charge him with.’