Hardcastle's Quartet

by Graham Ison

  ‘Undoubtedly died as a result of falling out of the window,’ said Thomas, and stood up.

  ‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But Dr Spilsbury’s on his way.’

  ‘Oh? Is that really necessary?’ asked Thomas, taking the DDI’s comment as a slight on his professional judgement.

  ‘Don’t hurt to have a second opinion,’ rejoined Hardcastle tersely, and left Thomas to put his paraphernalia away in his Gladstone bag.

  As Hardcastle returned to street level, a cab drew up and Dr Bernard Spilsbury alighted. Attired as usual in morning dress with a cape and a top hat, he was a tall, austere figure of a man with a commanding presence.

  Dr Thomas gave Spilsbury a brief nod and climbed into the cab that the pathologist had just vacated.

  Although only forty-one years of age, Spilsbury enjoyed a formidable prestige in the field of forensic pathology. The cause célèbre that brought him to the notice of the public had occurred four years previously. His evidence in what became known as the Brides-in-the-Bath case was instrumental in proving categorically that George Joseph Smith had murdered three of his wives, thus negating the defence argument of accidental drowning. It was that notorious series of murders that had established Spilsbury’s reputation. Thereafter, whenever defence counsel learned that Spilsbury would be appearing for the Crown, they would spend hours reading learned works on causes of death before subjecting him to cross-examination.

  ‘Ah, good morning, Hardcastle,’ said Spilsbury, as the DDI raised his hat. Ignoring the increasing rain, he swept off his hat and handed it, together with his cane, to Police Constable Holroyd. ‘I’m told you have a cadaver for me.’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ said Hardcastle, and opened the gate leading to the basement area.

  Descending the half-dozen steps, Spilsbury knelt beside the body and conducted a number of tests. Still kneeling, he made a few notes on the back of an envelope. ‘When did it start raining?’ he enquired of no one in particular.

  ‘Twenty-five past six, sir,’ said PC Barnes, who had been leaning over the railings watching Spilsbury at work.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Spilsbury. ‘You’ve got a good man there, Inspector. Very observant.’

  ‘So I’ve been told,’ muttered Hardcastle.

  ‘The cadaver’s almost dry,’ Spilsbury continued, ‘and I’d estimate the time of death to be at least eight hours ago, but I may change that view after I’ve conducted the post-mortem examination. Perhaps you’d be so good as to have it covered.’

  ‘And the cause of death, sir?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘My first impression is that death was a result of falling from that window,’ said Spilsbury cautiously as he pointed up at the open window that had previously attracted Marriott’s attention. ‘On the other hand, my dear Hardcastle, if it was the fall that had caused this young woman’s death I’d’ve expected there to be some blood surrounding the cadaver. But there’s none. However,’ he continued, standing up and brushing his knees, ‘I’ll be able to tell you more when I’ve had the opportunity to examine the cadaver more closely. Be so good as to have it sent to the usual place.’

  ‘Very good, Doctor.’ Hardcastle knew that Spilsbury always carried out his post-mortem examinations at St Mary’s Hospital at Paddington.

  ‘I’ll examine the unfortunate woman this afternoon,’ said Spilsbury as he retrieved his hat and cane from PC Holroyd.

  ‘Call the good doctor a cab, lad,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Holroyd, and stepped into the roadway as he sighted a taxi.

  ‘Mr Joplin.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Be so good as to arrange for the removal of the body to St Mary’s Hospital at Paddington,

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Inspector Joplin.

  That matter put in hand, Hardcastle turned to Marriott. ‘And now we’ll have a word with the housemaid. What was her name again, Marriott?’

  ‘Hannah Clarke, sir.’

  ‘Ah, yes, that’s the girl.’

  It was some time after Hardcastle had hammered loudly on the knocker of the Cheneys’ house that the frightened face of Hannah Clarke appeared round the door.

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, lass.’

  ‘Oh, sir, I saw all the policemen outside. What on earth has happened?’ asked the housemaid as she bobbed a curtsy. Dressed in standard domestic uniform, she wore a floor-length dress, apron and a lace coronet cap beneath which her blonde hair was swept up into a tight French roll.

  ‘I think we’d better come in,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Yes, sir, of course,’ said Hannah and led the detectives towards the kitchen.

  ‘I think we’ll use the drawing room, Hannah.’

  ‘I’m not sure the mistress would like that, sir.’

  ‘I doubt she’d mind in the circumstances, lass.’ Hardcastle opened the door to the drawing room and marched in. ‘Now, then, you just sit yourself down.’

  ‘Are you sure, sir?’ The idea of taking a seat in the drawing room was clearly alien to the young girl.

  ‘It’ll be all right, Hannah,’ said Marriott. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Er, nineteen, sir,’ said Hannah, after a pause, but remained standing.

  ‘Have you worked for Mrs Cheney for long?

  ‘A year come next month, sir.’ It was, however, a statement that was subsequently proved to be untrue.

  ‘Now, lass, d’you have a photograph of your mistress anywhere?’ Hardcastle asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Hannah. Crossing to the escritoire, she handed a framed studio portrait to Hardcastle. ‘I dusts it every day, sir,’ she added with a smile.

  ‘I’m sure you do, lass,’ said Hardcastle. After studying the image for a few seconds, he passed it to his sergeant. ‘What d’you think, Marriott?’

  ‘That’s her, sir.’ Marriott returned the frame to the housemaid.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that a body has been found in the basement, Hannah. Judging by this photograph it would appear to be your mistress,’ said Hardcastle as gently as he could.

  ‘Oh, the poor woman.’ Hannah Clarke emitted a sob that quickly became a flood of tears, and felt in her pocket for a handkerchief.

  ‘Do you live here, lass?’ asked Marriott. ‘Or do you come in every day?’

  ‘No, I live in, sir,’ said Hannah between sobs. ‘I’ve got a very nice room on the top floor, but I don’t know what I’ll do now. I suppose I’ll have to try for another position.’

  ‘And where does Mrs Cheney sleep?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘She has a bedroom on the first floor, sir. At the front.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d show us, then.’

  Hannah stood up, still dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, and led the way upstairs.

  The bedroom into which the maid showed the two detectives was a large, airy room, and contained a double bed that, although slightly crumpled, showed no sign of having been slept in. The other furniture comprised a large rosewood wardrobe, a matching dressing table adorned with a hairbrush, pots of face cream and other cosmetic items. In front of the dressing table was a satin-covered low-backed chair. A basin and ewer stood on a marble-topped washstand in one corner. A pink satin peignoir had been thrown carelessly on a chaise-longue and there was a single black glacé kid shoe on the floor near the bed.

  ‘Did you make this bed this morning, Hannah?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘No, sir. This is the first time I’ve been in here since yesterday morning.’

  ‘That’s a high window sill, sir,’ observed Marriott. ‘Bit difficult to fall out of it accidentally, I’d’ve thought.’

  ‘So would I, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, moving across the room. He had rapidly come to the conclusion that Georgina Cheney had been pushed rather than fallen accidentally. He examined the window sill closely, but found nothing that would assist in his investigation. Nevertheless, he decided against saying anything in th
e presence of the distraught maid.

  They returned to the drawing room on the floor below.

  ‘How about you make us a nice cup of tea, lass,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I expect you could do with one yourself.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Hannah, and disappeared.

  ‘What d’you think, sir?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘I don’t think she fell accidentally; the window sill’s too high,’ said Hardcastle, confirming what Marriott had said earlier, ‘but I suppose it’s possible she committed suicide. There again a woman committing suicide would either take both her shoes off, or leave ’em both on.’ For a moment or two he pondered that intriguing enigma. ‘But we’ll have to wait and see what the good doctor has to say about it.’

  ‘We’ll have to do something about getting hold of Mrs Cheney’s husband, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘The maid told me that he’s in the Royal Navy and she thinks he’s at sea.’

  ‘That’ll mean a trip to the Admiralty,’ said Hardcastle. ‘At least it’ll make a change from dealing with the army.’

  The maid came back into the room bearing a tray of tea. Marriott moved a small table so that she could set it down.

  ‘That’s what we need to cheer us up, lass,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Ah, I see you’ve found some ginger nuts. They’re my favourite.’ He leaned forward and took a biscuit. ‘You told my sergeant earlier this morning than Mrs Cheney’s husband is in the navy, Hannah.’

  ‘Yes, sir. The commander’s in one of them big ships with Admiral Beatty. At least, I think that’s what the mistress said.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where that ship is, do you?’ asked Hardcastle, brushing biscuit crumbs from his jacket.

  ‘No, sir. The mistress said as how it’s secret and no one had to know.’

  ‘Very wise of her,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Where’s your tea, lass?’

  ‘I thought I’d better have mine in the kitchen, sir. It don’t seem proper having it in here.’

  ‘I think we can make an exception in the circumstances, Hannah. You go and fetch your cup and bring it in here.’

  ‘If you’re sure, sir,’ said Hannah. She returned a few moments later and stood awkwardly in front of the two CID officers.

  ‘Now you sit yourself down,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and tell us all about your mistress.’

  ‘She was always very good to me, sir.’ Hannah finally yielded to Hardcastle’s suggestion and perched uncomfortably on the edge of an armchair, giving an impression of embarrassment at being invited to sit down in one of the family’s reception rooms. ‘She’d often give me sixpence to go to the Bioscope in Vauxhall Bridge Road. As a matter of fact, I was there last night. I saw that Charlie Chaplin in A Dog’s Life. It was ever so funny.’

  ‘He used to live just down the road from me,’ said Hardcastle, biting into another biscuit.

  ‘Gosh!’ said Hannah, and stared at Hardcastle in open-mouthed admiration, as though that made him as famous as the little tramp that Chaplin depicted so well.

  ‘But it was a good twenty years before I moved in,’ explained the DDI.

  ‘Did your mistress have many visitors, Hannah?’ asked Marriott, determined to shift his DDI away from reminiscing.

  ‘I don’t know as how I ought to say, sir.’

  ‘Now look, lass,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Mrs Cheney’s dead and no harm’ll come to you for speaking out, but it might help me to find out exactly what happened to her.’

  ‘Well, sir, there was one or two gentlemen callers, but the mistress said that they was friends of the commander’s and that they was taking her out to the theatre on account of her being lonely what with the commander being at the war.’

  ‘D’you happen to know the names of any of these gentlemen, Hannah?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘No, sir, the mistress never let on, but it weren’t none of my business anyway. But they was all very nice gents.’

  ‘Were any of them in uniform?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘One of them was in the navy and another was in army uniform. He told me he was a pilot. But there was a couple what was wearing ordinary clothes. Not uniforms, I mean.’

  ‘Did one of these gentlemen happen to call last night, before you went off to see Charlie Chaplin?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘No, sir. I left here at about six o’clock.’

  ‘And what time did you get back?’

  Hannah glanced guiltily at the DDI, but remained silent.

  ‘I’ll bet you met a gentleman admirer, Hannah,’ said Marriott gently, immediately recognizing the reason for the girl’s reticence. ‘A pretty girl like you must have lots of admirers.’

  Hannah blushed. ‘He’s a footman from one of the houses down the road, sir,’ she said, casting her eyes down. ‘After the pictures we went for a walk down Vauxhall Bridge Road and looked in the shops. It must’ve been about ten o’clock before I got back here.’

  ‘And you have a key, I presume.’

  ‘Yes, sir. The mistress was very good and she always said it was so as I could let myself in without disturbing her. There’s no other staff here, you see. On account of the war. Mrs Cheney told me that the butler joined up in 1914 and got hisself killed.’

  ‘And when you got home did you see Mrs Cheney?’

  ‘No, sir. I thought she’d be in bed so I went straight up to my room.’

  ‘Did you hear anything?’ asked Hardcastle. ‘Any unusual noise, perhaps.’

  ‘No, sir, nothing. To tell the truth I was quite tired out and I went straight to sleep.’

  ‘You said you had a key, Hannah,’ said Marriott. ‘Which way did you come in?’

  ‘By the front door, sir. The mistress told me always to come in that way. Anyhow, the basement door’s locked up and bolted from the inside. The mistress don’t like the idea of anyone being able to get in that way, not with the commander being away.’

  ‘And you didn’t look down into the basement when you came in, I suppose.’

  ‘No, sir. I never thought to.’

  ‘Have you done any cleaning this morning, Hannah?’ asked Marriott suddenly.

  ‘Cleaning, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Hannah. I imagine you have a set routine for doing the housework.’

  ‘Oh, I see, sir. There wasn’t much to do. Just an empty bottle and two glasses on the table there.’ Hannah pointed at the occasional table on which the tea tray was now resting.

  ‘What did you do with them?’

  For a moment the young housemaid looked mystified by the question. ‘Well, I threw the bottle in the dustbin, and washed the glasses and put them away, sir,’ she said, as though that was the obvious thing to have done.

  ‘Where is the dustbin?’

  ‘It’s in a cupboard in the kitchen, sir.’

  ‘How does it get collected, then? You said the basement door is locked and bolted.’

  ‘Yes, it is, sir, but I have to move it out into the basement every Friday. That’s the day the dustmen come.’

  ‘Show Sergeant Marriott where you put the bottle, Hannah,’ said Hardcastle, realizing why Marriott had posed the question.

  ‘It’s all right, sir, I’ll get it,’ said Hannah, springing to her feet.

  ‘No, let Sergeant Marriott pick it up, lass.’

  Moments later, Marriott returned with the bottle in a paper bag. ‘I’ll get this across to Fingerprint Branch, sir.’

  ‘I think that’ll be all for the time being, Hannah,’ said Hardcastle, as he stood up. ‘But in the meantime, don’t do any more cleaning up. A fingerprint officer will be here later.’

  ‘If you say so, sir, but what am I to do now, now that the mistress is …?’ Hannah could not bring herself to complete the sentence, and gave a convulsive sob.

  ‘The best thing is for you to stay here. I’ll get in touch with Commander Cheney and I’ve no doubt that he’ll be able to come home straight away.’ A thought occurred to Hardcastle as he reached the door of the drawing room. ‘Did Commander and Mrs Cheney have any children, Hannah?
’

  ‘Yes, sir. There’s Roland, he’s twelve and away at Dartmouth training for the navy, and young Tom is at Eton. He’s ten.’

  TWO

  Dr Bernard Spilsbury was standing in the centre of the white-walled examination room at St Mary’s Hospital in Praed Street, Paddington.

  ‘I’ve had occasion to revise my original view of the cause of death, my dear Hardcastle. The woman was strangled.’

  ‘I knew that that Doctor Thomas didn’t know what he was talking about,’ muttered Hardcastle.

  ‘Who?’ Spilsbury raised his eyebrows.

  ‘He’s the divisional surgeon who reckoned death was a result of falling from the window. He was leaving as you arrived.’

  ‘I’m sure he came to that conclusion with such evidence as was available to him at the time,’ said Spilsbury, unwilling to criticize a fellow member of his profession, whatever his private thoughts might have been. ‘But as I said this morning it was the lack of blood surrounding the cadaver that caused me to revise my opinion. The woman was already dead when she fell from the window. Or should I perhaps say when she was pushed from the window? But that, of course, is your preserve rather than mine, Hardcastle.’

  ‘You see, Marriott, I said it was murder.’ Hardcastle glanced at his sergeant with a satisfied smile. ‘Your estimate of the time of death, sir?’ he asked, turning back to Spilsbury.

  ‘As I implied at the scene, my dear Hardcastle, about ten last night, or to be on the safe side shall we say between ten and midnight,’ said Spilsbury. ‘Death was due to strangulation by firm application of the assailant’s thumbs to the carotid arteries, and the thyroid cornu was fractured. I would suggest that the killer was a man, confirmed by the fact that sexual intercourse had recently taken place. Now the rest is up to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We’d better go and find the bugger now, I suppose.’

  The cab set down the two detectives outside the Admiralty in Whitehall.

  ‘Pay the cabbie, Marriott, and don’t forget to take the plate number.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ It was a requirement that a claim for the cost of using a licensed motor Hackney carriage had to be accompanied by the plate number. But Marriott knew that; it was something of which the DDI had reminded him every time they hired a cab.