by Graham Ison
It was half past nine exactly that morning when Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at Sinclair Villiers’s house in Flood Street, Chelsea.
They mounted the steps to the front door and Hardcastle hammered loudly on the knocker.
Wilfred Henwood, immaculate in tailcoat and striped trousers, answered the door.
‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector!’ His face paled dramatically when he recognized the visitors. He knew instinctively that the DDI’s arrival did not bode well.
‘Yes, it’s me, Henwood,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and I want a word with you.’ The DDI took a step closer to the butler so that their faces were only inches apart. ‘Where has your master gone?’ he asked, as Henwood retreated into the hall.
‘He’s gone to Mrs Wheeler’s house for the weekend, sir,’ stuttered Henwood, severely shaken by Hardcastle’s aggressive approach.
‘He might’ve done, but you know damn’ well that he’s not there now because yesterday you tipped him off that I was after him.’ Hardcastle was furious with the butler and it showed.
‘I do have a duty to my master, sir,’ said the whining Henwood plaintively. He had backed up against the large table in the centre of the hall and could not retreat any further.
‘Yes, and you’ll have a duty to the prison governor by the time I’ve finished with you, my lad. That’s if you don’t have an appointment with the hangman. I’ve got a couple of murders to solve and you’re coming dangerously close to the top of my list of suspects.’
The last threat struck terror into Henwood and he began to shake violently. It was as well that the table was supporting him or he might have dropped to the floor in a state of collapse. ‘What’s Mr Villiers supposed to have done, sir?’ he asked, only managing to get the words out in a sort of strangulated whisper.
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ said Hardcastle. ‘In the meantime, I have a search warrant for this property and Sergeant Marriott and I are going to execute it right now. And we’ll start with Villiers’s study.’
‘I don’t think the master would like that, sir, not being here.’ Henwood, still white-faced and shaking, was in the unenviable position of being petrified at the prospect of his master’s reaction to a search of his house, and the certainty that Hardcastle would arrest him if he attempted to impede that search.
‘I don’t suppose he would, but I’m not expecting him to like it. So lead on.’
The study was a comfortable room with several armchairs and an oak desk.
‘See what you can find that might tell us where Villiers has gone, Marriott.’
After ten minutes of searching both the study and the bedroom, Marriott found a leather-bound address book in one of the drawers in a bedside cabinet and handed it to the DDI.
‘I suppose it might be useful,’ said Hardcastle, thumbing through the book, ‘although I somehow doubt it. Take it with you, Marriott.’
The search revealed nothing else of value to the investigation. But Hardcastle had concluded from his previous dealings with Villiers that the man was far too shrewd to leave damning evidence for the police to find.
Returning to the hall on the ground floor, Hardcastle confronted the butler. ‘Where’s the footman, Henwood?’
‘Downstairs in the servants’ hall, sir.’
‘Fetch him up here.’
‘But why d’you want Frederick, sir?’
‘Just fetch him, Henwood,’ snapped Hardcastle irritably, ‘and don’t argue the toss.’
Henwood opened the door that led to the downstairs part of the house and shouted for Frederick.
When the footman appeared, Hardcastle said jocularly, ‘I’ve decided to appoint you the butler of this household, Frederick.’
‘But I’m the butler here, Inspector.’ Henwood did not like the way in which this little scenario was being played out. It was a lame and formal protest, mildly made, but one that Henwood felt he should make. Especially in the presence of the footman.
‘Not any more you’re not, Henwood, because I’m arresting you for obstructing police in the execution of their duty. That’ll do for a start, but other charges will undoubtedly follow.’ Hardcastle turned back to the footman. ‘And if you want to stay out of trouble, Frederick my lad, you’ll call the police the moment Villiers gets back here.’ Not that he thought that there was much chance of Villiers returning in the foreseeable future. ‘And do it discreetly, because if Villiers finds out you’ve told us and he scarpers again, I’ll nick you an’ all. Got it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Frederick, now as cowed as Henwood by this inspector’s bullying attitude.
Leaving the running of Villiers’s household in the care of the bemused footman, Hardcastle and Marriott escorted Henwood into a cab.
‘Scotland Yard, driver,’ said Hardcastle, and turning to Henwood, said, ‘Tell ’em Cannon Row, Henwood, and half the time you’ll end up in Cannon Street in the City of London.’
Henwood did not seem to find the comment informative, but Marriott sighed inwardly; he had heard the DDI’s little homily all too often.
It was half past twelve when Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at the police station with their prisoner.
‘You can lock this man up, Skipper,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We’ll let him sweat for a bit, and I’ll have a word with him after I’ve had a bite to eat.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The station officer dipped his pen into the inkwell and began the laborious task of recording Henwood’s details in the large occurrence book.
‘All this police work’s given me a thirst, Marriott. I think I deserve a pint,’ said Hardcastle, and led the way to the Red Lion.
It was gone two o’clock by the time that Hardcastle and Marriott returned from imbibing their lunchtime refreshment.
‘Bring Henwood up to the interview room, Skipper,’ said Hardcastle. It was a different station officer from the one who had been on duty when Henwood had been brought in; the changeover of reliefs always took place at two o’clock.
Henwood carved a sorry figure as he shuffled into the interview room. Although still wearing his morning coat, he was holding up his striped trousers. The station officer had wisely deprived him of his collar and tie, bootlaces and braces. If a prisoner hanged himself while in police custody, it would be the station officer who faced an enquiry and possibly disciplinary action, if not a criminal charge. Exoneration only followed proof that all reasonable precautions had been taken.
Hardcastle spent the next few minutes in silence, filling his pipe and studying the butler. It did little to alleviate Henwood’s fear of what was likely to happen to him.
‘Well, my lad,’ began Hardcastle, ‘you’re in Queer Street and no mistake.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong, guv’nor,’ protested Henwood. His hands, fingers intertwined, rested on the scarred wooden tabletop, continuously clenching and unclenching.
Hardcastle scoffed. ‘Did you hear that, Marriott? Our Mr Henwood’s done nothing wrong.’ He shot forward in his chair. ‘Furnishing a false reference in order to obtain your present post, for a start. Secondly, obstructing me in the execution of my duty by telling Villiers that I was keen to have a chat with him, as a result of which he ran away.’ He leaned back again and lit his pipe. ‘But that’s only minor stuff, you see,’ he said, waving his match to extinguish the flame, and emitting a plume of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘If I take it into my head to charge your master with a serious criminal offence, you’ll likely finish up next to him gripping the dock rail at the Old Bailey charged with conspiracy.’
‘What conspiracy?’ asked Henwood desperately, clearly shocked by this latest threat.
‘That rather depends on which particular criminal offence I decide to charge Villiers with, don’t it?’ said Hardcastle airily. He glanced at the small window behind Henwood as though giving the matter his immediate and weighty consideration. ‘But I haven’t quite made up my mind yet.’ In truth, he had no idea whether Sinclair Villiers had committed an offence at all, but his
gut instinct told him that the châtelain of Flood Street had been up to no good. ‘However, Henwood, I might be able to make your problems all disappear if you’re straight with me.’
‘What d’you want from me, guv’nor?’ pleaded the anguished butler, at last sensing a vestige of hope that he may escape punishment. His three months in Pentonville prison had terrified him, and he had no desire to repeat the experience.
‘Your master went away quite often, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘What for?’
‘I don’t know, sir, and that’s the God’s honest truth.’
‘He never let on where he was going?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Never, sir.’
‘Or when he’d return?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Seems a damned funny way to treat his staff, don’t you think, Marriott?’
‘Indeed, sir. Not like the well-regulated houses we’ve been accustomed to calling on.’
‘That’s true. Sergeant Marriott and me have been to some of the finest houses in the country, Henwood. Homes of peers of the realm, knights of the shires, proper gentry, and none of ’em would ever clear off without telling their butler where they was going or when they’d be back. It’s only common courtesy, you see. I never go out without telling my staff where I’m off to. Ain’t that the case, Marriott?’
‘Yes, sir, definitely.’ Marriott decided that now would not be a good time to argue with a chief who never revealed his plans to anyone but his sergeant. And not always then.
‘Now, what about this here Mrs Wheeler who lives in Worthing? Go there often, did he?’
‘I think so, sir.’
‘So he did tell you where he was going.’ Hardcastle stared at Henwood accusingly. ‘Don’t lie to me, lad.’
‘Not directly, sir. He did say he was going to Worthing on one occasion and had to get the car filled up with petrol. I did a bit of nosing around while he was away and found Mrs Wheeler’s address in his little book. So, I thought to myself, she’s his lady friend.’
‘I see. You did a bit of nosing around when your master was away, did you? Looking for some spare cash, was you? Like you did when you got nicked the last time, I suppose.’
‘No, it wasn’t like that, sir. I just wondered where he’d gone in case I needed to get in touch with him.’
‘Very commendable,’ said Hardcastle sarcastically. ‘And that’s how you managed to get in touch with him this time, I suppose.’
‘What does Mr Villiers do for a living, Henwood?’ asked Marriott.
‘A living, sir?’ Henwood was disconcerted by the sudden change of both question and questioner.
‘It’s a simple enough query,’ said Marriott.
‘He doesn’t do anything, sir. Mr Villiers is a gentleman of independent means.’
‘I’m not too sure about the “gentleman” bit,’ murmured Hardcastle.
‘And where do these independent means come from?’ asked Marriott.
‘I’ve no idea, sir. I think he must invest in stocks and shares, and that sort of thing. I’ve heard him on the telephone once or twice, discussing stock options and the like.’
‘Did you find any evidence of this when you was doing your nosing about?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Not really, sir. It was just sort of an assumption on my part.’
‘How often did Mr Villiers go away on these jaunts of his, Henwood?’ asked Marriott, taking up the questioning again.
‘About once a month, and usually at the weekends. Mind you, he’s been away midweek, once or twice, as well.’
‘Are you sure of that, Henwood?’
‘Yes, sir. You see, I keep a journal. All butlers do.’
‘Ah, now we’re getting to the truth of the matter. You never told me you kept a journal.’
‘Most butlers do, sir.’
‘Is that a fact? So, where is this journal?’
‘At Flood Street, sir, in my pantry.’
Hardcastle spent a few moments lighting his pipe again. ‘Send someone round to Flood Street a bit tout de suite, Marriott, and tell him to pick up this journal of Henwood’s. Frederick, the new butler, will show him where to find it. While he’s there, he can ask the footman if he knows where Villiers has gone; see if he’s more forthcoming now that our Mr Henwood ain’t there. And tell the officer to take a cab.’
Marriott returned five minutes later. ‘I’ve sent Wood, sir.’
‘Good. Now, Henwood, this here journal of yours will show every time that Villiers pushed off on one of his little journeys, will it?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. I keep accurate records.’
‘And you’ve no idea where Villiers is at this moment?’
‘No, sir. I thought he’d gone to Worthing again, but you said he wasn’t there.’
‘Of course he wasn’t there. And you know he wasn’t because you’d warned him off,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘Now then, what d’you know about this Mrs Wheeler?’
‘Nothing, sir. I’ve never met the lady.’
‘And she never came to Flood Street?’
‘Not to my knowledge, sir.’
‘Not to your knowledge? But I thought you knew everything that went on in the household you supervise.’
‘Not everything, sir,’ said the anguished Henwood.
‘Put him down, Marriott, and we’ll have another chat with him when Wood gets back with this precious journal.’
‘How long are you going to keep me here?’ asked Henwood.
‘As long as it takes to get this matter sorted out,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Or until I’ve decided what to charge you with. In which case you’ll be up in front of the beak the following morning.’
Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood returned to the police station at three o’clock. He made straight for the DDI’s office and handed over the journal.
‘Did Frederick have anything useful to say, Wood?’
‘No, sir. I asked him where Villiers had gone, but he claimed that he didn’t know.’
‘Either he doesn’t know, or like Henwood is too scared to say. Anyway, ask Sergeant Marriott to step in.’
‘Is Henwood’s journal likely to be of any use, sir?’ asked Marriott, as he came through the door of Hardcastle’s office.
‘Remains to be seen, Marriott.’ Hardcastle flipped through a few pages of Henwood’s neatly written book. ‘I think I’ll have a word with Mr Quinn about this. If Villiers’s days away at Worthing tie up with the bogus Mrs Wheeler’s trips to Shoreham harbour, we might be getting somewhere.’
‘But d’you think that that will get us any nearer finding out who murdered Gosling and Stein, sir?’ Once again, Marriott was concerned that the DDI had lost sight of why A Division detectives had become involved in a Special Branch enquiry in the first place. And were spending more time on it than on the Gosling murder.
‘Of course I do, Marriott. I’ve every reason to think that the two murders we’re dealing with are linked to Villiers and the woman at Worthing.’
Marriott failed to see the connection, but he did not have the DDI’s experience. ‘By the way, sir, there was one telephone number in Villiers’s address book that might be of interest.’
‘Address book? What address book, Marriott?’
‘The one we found at his house, sir.’
‘Oh, that one. Yes, well, what about it?’
‘I’m awaiting details from the post office, sir. To discover the name and address of the subscriber.’
‘We’ll have a word with whoever it is when we have a moment, Marriott. Remind me.’
‘Might I ask what we hope to learn from them, sir?’
‘They might be able to tell us something about Sinclair Villiers. Something we don’t know already.’
For ten minutes Superintendent Quinn made a careful study of Henwood’s journal. He then drew a Manila folder across his desk, and spent a further five minutes comparing its contents with the entries in the butler’s day book.
‘Interesting, Mr Hardcastle.’ Quinn leaned back with a satisfied smile on his face. ‘My detectives have made a number of discoveries that I’m prepared to share with you.’ He paused. ‘In the strictest confidence, of course.’
‘Of course, sir,’ murmured Hardcastle.
‘For some time now we’ve been interested in a Spanish freighter that comes into Shoreham harbour about once a month. Looking at Henwood’s journal, it would seem that Villiers travelled to Worthing, presumably to the woman’s house, also once a month. It’s an interesting coincidence, Mr Hardcastle, and if Henwood is to be believed, Villiers turns up at Worthing a day or two before the Spaniard docks at Shoreham.’
‘The maid Sarah said she called a cab for her mistress once a month to go to Shoreham, sir.’
‘Too much of a coincidence for my liking,’ said Quinn. ‘I think I’ll speak to the Admiralty. It’s time we had the Royal Navy keeping an eye on this Spaniard.’
Hardcastle was amazed that Quinn talked so blithely of summoning the assistance of the Royal Navy in much the same way as he would have sent for a constable.
Quinn looked up in time to see Hardcastle’s expression of astonishment. ‘When the security of the state is at risk, Mr Hardcastle, anything I need is at my disposal.’
SIXTEEN
It was at nine o’clock on Thursday the twentieth of January, almost a week after their last meeting, that Superintendent Quinn sent for Hardcastle again.
‘I have received a signal from the captain of His Majesty’s Ship Derwent, Mr Hardcastle, a destroyer patrolling the English Channel. A boarding party stopped and searched the Swedish freighter SS Carlson in the Strait of Dover just off the South Foreland at four thirty a.m. today. It was a routine search to check whether the vessel – the Swedes being a neutral nation – was carrying any weapons of war. The skipper of the Carlson informed the officer in charge of the boarding party that they were carrying only timber and this was verified. The Carlson’s captain also said that he was docking at Shoreham at approximately two thirty p.m. today.’
‘Does this tally with the entries in Henwood’s journal, sir?’