Hardcastle's Quartet

by Graham Ison

  ‘I want to see someone in the records department,’ Hardcastle announced to the uniformed custodian at the entrance to the Admiralty.

  ‘If it’s about your pension you’re in the wrong place,’ said the custodian. He glanced at Hardcastle’s moustache. ‘Royal Marines, was you? That’s in Stamford Street, Lambeth.’

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ snapped Hardcastle, thrusting his warrant card in the man’s face. ‘And you can direct me to an officer who can deal with my enquiry. Now!’

  ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir,’ said the custodian, immediately adopting a craven attitude and revolving his hands around each other in a washing motion. ‘Fred, show these gents up to Lieutenant-Commander de Courcy’s office,’ he shouted, turning his head.

  A messenger emerged from a small cubbyhole. ‘This way, gents.’ He led Hardcastle and Marriott through a number of labyrinthine passages and up a flight of stairs. He knocked on the door of de Courcy’s office and opened it. ‘Two gents from the police to see you, sir,’ he said.

  The tall figure of Hugo de Courcy limped across his office with hand outstretched. ‘It’s Inspector Hardcastle unless I’m much mistaken, and Sergeant Marriott.’

  ‘Indeed, Commander,’ said Hardcastle as he shook hands. ‘It must be all of two years since we last spoke. You’ve got a good memory.’

  ‘I see you’ve acquired another half stripe since we were here last, Commander,’ said Marriott. ‘And a Distinguished Service Cross,’ he added, nodding at the blue and white ribbon on de Courcy’s jacket.

  ‘And much good it’s done me,’ said de Courcy bitterly. ‘I eventually got a seagoing appointment in the old Cornwallis and lost a leg when she was torpedoed off Malta in January last year. Consequently I was sent straight back here to my old job. Fortunes of war, I suppose,’ he added as he returned to his desk and sat down awkwardly. ‘However, enough of my grousing. Take a seat and tell me how I can help you.’

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of a Mrs Georgina Cheney, Commander. She’s the wife of Commander Robert Cheney who—’

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed de Courcy, cutting across what Hardcastle was saying, ‘but I know Bob Cheney. What happened, Inspector?’

  Hardcastle explained the circumstances under which Cheney’s wife had been murdered. ‘It’s necessary for the commander to be contacted as quickly as possible,’ he continued. ‘And there’s the added complication of his two sons: one is at Dartmouth and the other is at Eton, so I’m told by the Cheneys’ housemaid. They’ll have to be told, but it’d be better if their father was to do it.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said de Courcy, rapidly making notes on a pad. ‘I’ll get a signal off to his ship straight away.’

  ‘Is he serving far away, Commander?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘I shan’t know which ship he’s in until I make some enquiries, but I couldn’t tell you even if I did know. Official secrets and all that.’

  ‘You’ve no idea how long it’ll be before he gets back to London, then?’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said de Courcy. ‘We might be in luck if he’s serving in home waters or he’s at a stone frigate in the UK.’

  ‘What in hell’s name is a stone frigate?’ asked the DDI.

  De Courcy laughed. ‘It’s what the navy calls its shore establishments, Inspector. Usually a naval barracks.’

  ‘Damn funny business,’ muttered Hardcastle.

  ‘I’m afraid the navy’s a bit like that,’ said de Courcy. ‘I’ve no doubt you have some esoteric practices in the police.’

  ‘That’s a fact, Commander,’ muttered Hardcastle with feeling. ‘It would be helpful if you could ask Commander Cheney to call at Cannon Row police station before he goes home to Whilber Street, and then I can explain what’s what.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll keep you informed, especially if there seems to be a problem.’

  It seemed that Lieutenant-Commander de Courcy had not met with any problems in contacting Commander Cheney, and neither had he wasted any time. At half past eight the following morning an elderly constable appeared in the doorway of Hardcastle’s office just as the DDI was filling his first pipe of the day.

  ‘There’s a Commander Cheney downstairs, sir. He says as how you want to see him.’

  ‘Show him up, lad.’ Hardcastle always addressed constables as ‘lad’ regardless of their age. ‘And ask Sergeant Marriott to step in.’

  A minute later, the somewhat dishevelled figure of a naval officer arrived in the DDI’s office, his cap tucked beneath his left arm. His uniform was worn and appeared not to have been pressed for some time. The three gold-lace rings on each sleeve were tarnished, as was his cap badge, and his medal ribbons, including those of the Boer War, were faded.

  ‘Robert Cheney, Inspector. You’ll have to excuse my rig, but I’ve come straight from Scapa Flow. Hell of a journey, starting with a crossing from the Orkneys to Inverness and then the night train to Euston.’ He dumped a small suitcase on the floor.

  ‘You’d better sit down before you fall down, Commander,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I dare say you could do with a cup of tea.’

  ‘That would be most welcome.’ Cheney took out a cigarette case. ‘D’you mind?’ he asked.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Hardcastle, at last lighting his pipe.

  ‘I’ll arrange for the tea, sir,’ said Marriott, and left the office in search of the police station matron.

  ‘I’m sorry that you’ve come home to bad news, Commander,’ said Hardcastle, never very polished when it came to offering condolences.

  ‘Strange business, war,’ said Cheney reflectively. ‘One usually expects that one’s wife would be the recipient of bad news, not the other way round. Incidentally, the Admiralty didn’t tell me exactly what happened. Was it an air raid?’

  For a moment or two, Hardcastle was taken aback. ‘I’m afraid your wife was murdered, Commander,’ he said.

  Slack-jawed, Cheney stared at the DDI. ‘Murdered!’ he eventually managed to utter.

  ‘There’s no doubt of it. Dr Spilsbury, the leading pathologist, is adamant that she was strangled,’ said Hardcastle, and went on to relate the circumstances under which Georgina Cheney’s body had been found in the basement area of 29 Whilber Street.

  ‘My God! But who would have done such a thing?’

  ‘That’s what I’m endeavouring to find out.’

  Marriott reappeared in the office followed by the police station matron.

  ‘I’ve brought your tea, sir,’ said the matron, ‘and I managed to get you some ginger biscuits.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Cartwright,’ said Hardcastle as he dropped a few pennies on the matron’s tray. ‘How’s your boy?’

  ‘Doing very well, sir, thank you. He’s a battery quartermaster sergeant now. I was going to talk to you about his future when you’ve got a moment.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to do so, Mrs Cartwright, but I’m a little busy right now. Perhaps later today.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Bertha Cartwright picked up her tray, nodded to Commander Cheney and left the office.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Commander,’ said Hardcastle as he handed Cheney a cup of tea. ‘Bertha Cartwright’s an absolute gem, but she doesn’t always know when to pick the right time for a chat.’

  ‘I’ve got a coxswain like that,’ said Cheney absently, and stared out of the window.

  ‘If I’m to find out who murdered your wife, Commander, I’m going to have to ask you some personal questions.’

  ‘Carry on, Inspector.’ Cheney turned his gaze back to the DDI and spooned sugar into his tea.

  ‘I’ve been told that your wife was seeing other men.’ Hardcastle saw no point in evading the issue. Being a naval officer, Cheney was presumably accustomed to straight talking, even about his private life.

  ‘Who the hell told you that?’ demanded Cheney angrily, but immediately apologized. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I know you’re only doing your job.’ For a mom
ent or two he paused pensively. ‘Our marriage wasn’t always harmonious after the present conflict began; I suppose you could call it one of the casualties of war,’ he said, without elaborating. ‘I’m a career sailor and during the thirteen years of peace between the South African wars and the outbreak of this one I was stationed in Malta. At least, for ten of them. And that’s where I met and married Georgina. She was the daughter of a senior diplomat.’

  ‘Must have been an enjoyable time,’ said Hardcastle, intent on getting the naval officer to reveal more of his personal life.

  ‘Oh, it was, but in a sense it was unrealistic too. The nights were hot and our social circle comprised a charming group of people: navy, army and the civil service, and one or two businessmen. There were society balls where the champagne flowed and we danced into the small hours. It was an idyllic time and I suppose Georgina imagined that that sort of life was the way it would always be for a naval officer’s wife. And then the bloody war started,’ he added bitterly.

  ‘Is that when your wife returned to London, Commander?’ asked Marriott.

  Cheney turned, as though seeing the sergeant for the first time. ‘She didn’t return; she arrived here for the first time. She was born in Malta, d’you see. It was in November 1913 actually, after I was ordered to join HMS Dreadnought with the Grand Fleet. Of course the boys, Roland and Thomas, were both born in Malta, and it was a bit of a shock for the three of them to move to a cold England. I’m afraid it was a particularly sobering experience for Georgina, coming to a London that she didn’t know at all, and where she had no friends.’

  ‘I understand that your two sons are away from home,’ said Marriott.

  ‘Yes. Roland’s at Dartmouth and Thomas is at Eton. I suppose that that, and my own absence, left Georgina with time on her hands. But I didn’t know of any other men in her life. What made you think that, Inspector?’ Cheney turned back to Hardcastle.

  ‘Policemen have this habit of picking up gossip,’ said Hardcastle, unwilling to identify Hannah Clarke, the Cheneys’ maid, as his source. Neither did he intend to tell Cheney that Spilsbury had discovered that Georgina had indulged in sexual intercourse just before her death.

  ‘Well, if that’s all I can help you with, Inspector, I’d better see about telling the boys what’s happened to their mother. Not something I look forward to doing. The thing I most need now is a hot bath and a change of clothes. I’ve been granted compassionate leave and I’ll be at Whilber Street for the next few days if there’s anything else I can assist you with.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to your maid, Commander, and she did mention seeking another position,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but I suggested that she remain there until you got home.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cheney, and nodded vaguely. ‘I’ve not met the girl.’ He picked up his suitcase and left the room, a much saddened man – as much from the death of his wife as the prospect that she might have been unfaithful.

  ‘Have Catto and Keeler come up with anything from the Cheneys’ neighbours, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘They’re in the office waiting to see you, sir.’

  ‘Fetch ’em in, then,’ said the DDI, relighting his pipe. ‘Well?’ he barked, when the two detective constables entered.

  For once Henry Catto was more confident than usual in the DDI’s presence, probably because he had something worthwhile to report. But that feeling did not last long.

  ‘Basil and I—’ Catto began, but got no further.

  ‘Who the hell’s Basil?’ demanded Hardcastle.

  Catto immediately regressed to the nervous state that the DDI usually brought on. ‘Er, I mean DC Keeler, sir.’

  ‘Well say so, Catto. I can’t be expected to know the Christian names of my detectives. You’re damned lucky I know you’re called Catto.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Catto, now in a state of complete nervous flux. ‘DC Keeler and I called at several houses on either side of 29 Whilber Street, sir, and one or two opposite. The occupant of number twenty-eight, immediately across the road from the Cheneys’ house, a very nice lady called Mrs Winifred Curtis, was quite informative.’

  ‘I hope you’re about to be as well, Catto. For God’s sake get on with it.’

  ‘Yes, sir. She told me that she has seen gentlemen callers at the Cheneys’ house on several occasions.’

  ‘Times?’

  ‘Usually in the late evening, sir. Sometimes at about seven, more often quite a bit later.’

  ‘What sort of men were they?’

  ‘One was in army uniform, one in the navy, and one in civilian clothes, sir.’

  And that was exactly what Hannah Clarke had told him when he had interviewed her. Hardcastle leaned back in his chair. ‘It seems that Georgina Cheney had a busy social life after all, Marriott. So much for the commander’s claim that she had very few friends. She certainly seems to have made up for lost time since her husband went to sea.’

  ‘This Mrs Curtis seems to spend a lot of time gazing out of her window, sir.’

  ‘She’s the sort of neighbour I like, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, ‘so long as she doesn’t live anywhere near me. I think we’ll pay her a visit.’

  Winifred Curtis primped her upswept hair as she opened the door and smiled at the two detectives. She was an elegant woman, probably in her late forties, early fifties even, and was attired in a peach silk afternoon gown despite it being only half past ten in the morning. But in the DDI’s experience the war had slowly brought about the abandonment of dress conventions and people had started wearing whatever they liked whenever they liked.

  ‘Good morning, madam.’ Hardcastle raised his hat. ‘We’re police officers, but there’s nothing for you to worry about.’ Since 1914, he had learned that the arrival of the police at the door of someone who may have relatives in the armed forces usually heralded bad news.

  ‘I suppose you’ve come about that poor Georgina Cheney,’ said Mrs Curtis, as she showed the detectives into the drawing room. ‘Two very nice young policemen came here yesterday. Henry and Basil they were called. We had a cosy little chat about all sorts of things over a cup of tea.’

  ‘I see.’ Hardcastle preferred not to know that his detectives had wasted their time taking tea and indulging in ‘a cosy little chat’. ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, madam, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’

  ‘How very nice,’ murmured Mrs Curtis. ‘I dare say you could do with a nice cup of tea too. Please sit down.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Curtis, tea would be most welcome.’

  Mrs Curtis leaned across and rang a small brass tea bell. Moments later a maid appeared in the doorway and bobbed.

  ‘Perhaps you’d bring us some tea, Lottie, my dear. And the biscuits.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Lottie and disappeared.

  ‘I’m lucky to have that girl,’ said Mrs Curtis. ‘It’s so difficult to get decent staff since the war began, you know. Most of them go off to make munitions and get paid twice as much as I could afford to pay them.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, madam,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘My last maid left to become a wine waitress at Liverpool Street Station of all places. I never realized that they had wine waitresses at railway stations. It’s quite remarkable what the women of this country are doing these days. D’you know, Inspector, I had a young lady come here the other day to sweep the chimneys, and she was quite well-spoken too.’ Winifred Curtis prattled on unabated. ‘I really can’t see that Mr Lloyd George will be able to avoid giving women the vote after this dreadful war’s over. Not that I agree with what that Mrs Pankhurst was doing. Throwing bricks through windows isn’t going to achieve anything.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Mrs Curtis, but we were talking about Mrs Cheney,’ said Hardcastle, intent on stemming the flow of the woman’s incessant twittering. ‘I’m told by my detectives that she entertained gentlemen friends.’

  ‘I suppose that’s what s
ome would call it,’ said Mrs Curtis, with a toss of her head, but paused as the maid returned. ‘Ah, the tea. Put it down over there, Lottie my dear.’

  ‘I’ve brought some ginger snaps like you said, ma’am,’ said Lottie.

  ‘That nice young Henry of yours told me that you’d probably pop in, Inspector, and he said that you were partial to ginger snaps.’ Mrs Curtis smiled at Hardcastle.

  ‘Indeed I am,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I must remember to give him a pat on the back.’

  ‘He told me he was only a constable,’ Mrs Curtis continued. ‘I’m sure you ought to make him a sergeant.’

  ‘It’s not in my hands, madam.’ If Hardcastle had his way Catto would never be a sergeant. ‘You were going to tell me about Mrs Cheney’s visitors.’

  ‘Was I?’ Winifred Curtis looked vague. ‘Oh yes, of course.’ She leaned forward in the manner of a conspirator. ‘There was one young man wearing army uniform, and another time there was a sailor. I’m not sure about the man in ordinary clothes; he might have been one of the others who’d changed out of uniform.’

  ‘How old were these men, Mrs Curtis?’ asked Marriott, looking up from his pocketbook.

  ‘Ah, now that I think about it, perhaps the civilian man was a bit older. Yes, I’m sure it couldn’t have been one of the others in mufti. That is what the soldiers call civilian clothes, isn’t it?’

  ‘I believe so,’ said Marriott, somewhat impatiently. ‘But what were their ages?’

  ‘The soldier and the sailor couldn’t have been more than thirty, I suppose, if that; probably younger. Yes, now I think about it, they were definitely younger. It was difficult to see without my binoculars.’

  ‘Your binoculars?’ queried Hardcastle. ‘Why would you need binoculars?’

  ‘To spot enemy aeroplanes, of course. We usually keep them here, but my husband sometimes takes them with him when he goes on duty.’

  ‘Is your husband in one of the forces, madam?’