Hardcastle's Quartet

by Graham Ison

  ‘No, sir.’ Marriott knew that the DDI often jumped to a conclusion of that sort himself, but was rarely willing to accept a similar suggestion from others.

  ‘There was an address book somewhere in the desk. I wonder if that’ll shed any light on who she was writing to.’ Hardcastle ferreted about in the escritoire once more. ‘Ah, here we are.’ He thumbed through the small book and let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘Dammit! The pages A to C have been torn out.’

  ‘That narrows the field a bit, sir,’ said Marriott.

  ‘I don’t see how, Marriott.’ Hardcastle stared at his sergeant. ‘Bring that book with you; it might shed some light on Mrs Cheney’s other beaus. In the meantime, I think we’ll have another look upstairs.’

  ‘Before we do that, sir, a man in army uniform has just approached the front door,’ said Marriott, having glanced out of the window.

  ‘Has he, by Jove! Looks like we’re in luck.’ Hardcastle moved swiftly across the room and dashed into the hall. ‘Hannah!’ he bellowed, as there was a loud rat-a-tat on the knocker. ‘Quickly!’

  ‘Whatever’s happened, sir?’ asked the newly appointed housekeeper, running upstairs from the kitchen.

  ‘There’s a man in army uniform at the door, Hannah. Show him in, but don’t say anything about us being here.’ And with that, Hardcastle retreated to the drawing room and closed the door.

  When the young army officer was shown into the drawing room, Hardcastle and Marriott were standing in front of the fireplace.

  ‘Good evening, Captain,’ said Hardcastle affably.

  ‘Oh my God!’ The officer’s tunic bore wings on his left shoulder identifying him as a pilot and he had several medal ribbons led by the purple and white of the Military Cross. There were three Bath stars on each of his cuffs, and on his collar the distinctive Fleur-de-Lys badges of the Manchester Regiment.

  ‘I take it you were expecting to see Mrs Cheney, Captain,’ said Hardcastle, still maintaining the level tones with which he had greeted the airman.

  ‘I, um, oh hell and damnation!’ spluttered the embarrassed officer. ‘I’d arranged to take her to the theatre.’ He paused. ‘Oh God! Are you Mister Cheney?’

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Metropolitan Police. Who are you?’

  ‘Guy Slater. But what are the police doing here?’

  ‘Investigating the murder of Georgina Cheney, Captain Slater.’

  ‘Murdered!’ Slater sank into a chair. ‘Hell’s bells! When did this happen?’

  ‘Yesterday. Well, the night before last to be exact,’ said Marriott. ‘When did you last visit Mrs Cheney, Captain Slater?’

  ‘I saw Georgina on Saturday evening. I took her to see the new musical at the Gaiety Theatre. It was called Going Up and was all about this American aviator called Robert who’s fallen in love with a girl called Grace and—’

  ‘I’m sure it was a very entertaining play, Captain Slater.’ Hardcastle held up a hand. ‘But to get back to the point, I presume you brought Mrs Cheney home after the theatre.’

  ‘Of course I bally well did.’ Slater contrived to look offended, as though he had been accused of behaving like a cad. ‘I wouldn’t have left her to find her own way home.’

  ‘And I understand you stayed the night,’ said Hardcastle blithely, as though he already knew this to be the case.

  ‘Well, I, um—’

  ‘No need to be shy about being invited into the bed of a good-looking girl like Georgina, Captain Slater. You’d’ve been a fool to refuse.’

  ‘Oh, what the hell!’ exclaimed Slater. ‘I wasn’t the only one.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to explain.’ Hardcastle took a seat opposite the young pilot and lit his pipe.

  ‘I’m stationed at Sutton’s Farm near Hornchurch.’ Slater was now more relaxed. ‘And I know of at least one other chap from there who regularly visited Georgina.’

  ‘What was his name, Captain Slater?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘I don’t think I could possibly betray a confidence of that nature.’ Slater smiled diffidently and brushed at his moustache.

  ‘I would remind you that I’m dealing with the murder of Georgina Cheney, Captain Slater,’ said Hardcastle sharply, ‘and I won’t tolerate that sort of misplaced loyalty interfering in my investigation. Now who is this man?’

  Slater appeared shocked at the DDI’s brusque manner. ‘I, um, well, it’s actually Flight Sub-Lieutenant Leo Etherington. He’s a naval chap. Well, actually, he’s in the Royal Air Force now, as am I.’

  ‘But you’re wearing army uniform and captain’s pips on your cuffs.’ Hardcastle, never one too conversant with military uniform, was now totally confused.

  ‘I’m still getting used to it myself, but they haven’t decided what sort of uniform we’re to have,’ said Slater. ‘There’s some talk of sky-blue with gold stripes on the cuffs like the navy. But in the meantime, we’re hanging on to our army kit. They’re calling it a “wearing-out” period. Frankly, I don’t think the brass hats can make up their minds.’

  ‘So where does Etherington fit into this? Is he in the navy or in this new air force?’

  ‘Yes, he’s in the RAF too. When the RAF was formed chaps from the Royal Flying Corps and the Royal Naval Air Service were combined into the new air force. Leo came from the navy, you see. It’s all rather complicated, Inspector, and there are some old cavalrymen in the army and a few diehards at the Admiralty who say that the RAF won’t last. But aeroplanes are here to stay; I can assure you of that. And as for the cavalry, well, that’s a dead duck, despite what Sir Douglas Haig thinks.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Hardcastle, who knew of quite a few innovations that had been imposed upon the Metropolitan Police and were doomed to have but a short life. ‘And do you know of anyone else who regularly visited Mrs Cheney?’

  ‘No, but it wouldn’t surprise me if there were others. Georgina was quite a fast sort of girl. She enjoyed going to the theatre and dining in good restaurants. And in return she was quite happy to …’ Slater broke off, embarrassed at his own candour. ‘Well, I’m sure you know what I mean, Inspector.’

  ‘Only too well.’ Hardcastle had frequently encountered stories of unfaithful wives whose husbands were prosecuting the war at sea, in the field or in the air. ‘Perhaps you’d tell this man Etherington that I’d like to see him at Cannon Row police station as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’m not sure that he’d be able to get away, Inspector. You see—’

  ‘Perhaps if I was to get in touch with Major General Sir Hugh Trenchard, Captain Slater, and tell him why I want to see Etherington, he would arrange for him to be released. Apart from anything else, I gather from what you’ve just said that he comes to London quite frequently.’

  Even though he was currently serving as commander of the Independent Air Force in France, the mere mention of the feared ‘Boom’ Trenchard was sufficient for Slater. ‘I’ll pass on your request, Inspector.’

  The door of the drawing room opened and Hannah appeared with a tray. ‘I’ve brought your tea, sir.’

  ‘Captain Slater isn’t staying for tea, Hannah,’ said Hardcastle.

  Slater stood up. ‘Hell, I’ve got two tickets for The Bing Boys on Broadway at the Alhambra tonight. What am I to do with those?’ he enquired plaintively.

  ‘You could take Hannah,’ suggested Hardcastle.

  Slater cast an appraising glance at the young housekeeper. ‘I say, what a smashing wheeze!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly, sir,’ Hannah said to Hardcastle. ‘I have duties here.’

  ‘Why not, lass? An evening at the theatre would do you good, and the commander’s not here.’

  ‘The commander?’ queried Slater.

  ‘Georgina’s widower is a commander in the Royal Navy, but he’s not here to object,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘A commander?’ This news appeared to depress Slater even more.

  ‘But no hanky-panky, Captain Slater,’ cautioned Hard
castle, ‘or you’ll have me to answer to.’

  ‘Certainly not, Inspector,’ said Slater, and escorted Hannah from the room.

  Hardcastle heard the housekeeper giggling in the hall and wondered whether she had met Slater before. On a social footing.

  FOUR

  Hardcastle had never spoken to Major General Sir Hugh Trenchard, and had no idea where he would have found him if he needed to. But the threat of doing so had obviously had the required effect on Flight Sub-Lieutenant Leo Etherington. On the morning following the DDI’s questioning of Guy Slater, Etherington appeared at the police station at nine o’clock and was shown up to the DDI’s office.

  ‘I’m told you wish to see me.’ Etherington, a rather foppish young man, probably in his early twenties, was attired in naval uniform. He wore a single gold lace ring on each of his cuffs, above which, on the left sleeve, was the golden eagle of the Royal Naval Air Service.

  ‘Sit down, Lieutenant,’ said Hardcastle, and shouted for Marriott. ‘Are you in the Royal Navy or the Royal Air Force?’ He was not prepared to take Slater’s word for Etherington’s status.

  ‘I’m actually in the Royal Air Force now,’ drawled Etherington, as Marriott silently entered the office and took a seat behind Etherington. ‘But we’re having to make do with our naval rig until the powers that be have worked out what we’re supposed to be wearing and what ranks we’re to be known by. It’s all rather a bore.’

  ‘How often did you sleep with Georgina Cheney, Etherington?’ Hardcastle had no intention of entering into a discussion about the uniform of the Royal Air Force or its rank structure; neither did he intend to equivocate when it came to interrogating this bumptious young blade.

  ‘Oh, I say, what sort of question’s that?’

  ‘One I want an answer to.’

  ‘I don’t really think that my private life is anything to do with you,’ said Etherington languidly, a supercilious expression on his face, and withdrew a cigarette case from the pocket of his reefer jacket.

  Hardcastle slapped a hand on his desk so loudly that the young airman jumped in alarm. ‘Mrs Cheney was murdered last Tuesday night, lad, and I’m trying to find out who killed her. Now, answer my bloody question before I’m tempted to lock you up for obstructing me in the execution of my duty.’

  ‘Christ!’ exclaimed Etherington, sitting bolt upright. ‘I say!’ His jaw dropped and he put away his cigarette case. He suddenly realized that this policeman was to be taken seriously. ‘It was only a bit of fun. Gina was up for it, don’t you know.’

  ‘Where did you meet her?’ asked Marriott.

  Etherington turned in his seat to face the sergeant. ‘As a matter of fact it was at a rather swish affair at the Langham Hotel about five weeks ago. It was some charity ball, I think.’

  ‘D’you have the exact date, Mr Etherington?’ asked Marriott.

  Etherington took out a pocket diary and thumbed through its pages. ‘Saturday, the eleventh of May,’ he said, glancing up.

  ‘What was a naval officer doing—?’ Hardcastle began.

  ‘I’m a Royal Air Force officer,’ Etherington reminded Hardcastle.

  ‘I don’t give a damn what you are, lad, and don’t bloody well interrupt me again. What were you doing at an expensive function like that on a junior officer’s pay?’

  ‘I do have private means.’ Etherington almost sneered, but decided that it would be unwise to alienate this rough diamond of a policeman. ‘Being in uniform, no one asks any questions, don’t you know. Consequently they just let me in free of charge.’

  ‘I’ll ask you again. How exactly did you meet up with Mrs Cheney at this charity affair? Or did you take her there as your partner?’

  ‘Good Lord no! I first spotted her at the buffet table. She was a damn good-looking girl and I decided I must get to know her. We got chatting and I danced with her a few times, and then took her for supper.’

  ‘Wasn’t she there with someone?’

  ‘Probably, but she didn’t seem to care about leaving the poor fellow high and dry, whoever he was. Probably some white-feather scrimshanker, what? Anyway we had a quiet dinner at a restaurant in Covent Garden and I escorted her home to Whilber Street.’

  ‘You didn’t leave her at her front door, I suppose,’ commented Hardcastle acidly.

  ‘A nod’s as good as a wink,’ said Etherington. ‘I stayed the night.’

  ‘And presumably you saw her several times after that?’ suggested Marriott.

  ‘Too bloody true. She used to hold parties at her place. Jolly good they were too.’

  ‘Parties?’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘What sort of parties?’

  ‘You know the sort of thing. A few girls, plenty to drink.’ Etherington chuckled at the recollection.

  ‘Was the maid there?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Who, young Hannah? Rather. She joined in. She was good fun, too.’

  ‘The carney little bitch!’ exclaimed Hardcastle, furious that Hannah Clarke had been deceiving him.

  ‘Seems that young Hannah was spinning us a yarn, sir.’ It was with some difficulty that Marriott prevented himself from smiling as he realized that his chief had been caught out, a rare occurrence for the DDI. And by a nineteen-year-old housemaid-cum-housekeeper at that.

  ‘Where were you last Tuesday evening, Mr Etherington?’ asked Hardcastle irritably.

  ‘I was flying. Defence of London and all that, don’t you know. You can ask my squadron commander.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Major Montague Lawford.’

  ‘Did he ever attend these parties?’ asked Hardcastle, still fuming at Hannah Clarke’s deception.

  ‘Not that I know of. Mind you, I couldn’t always go to these get-togethers. Call of duty and all that.’

  ‘You can go.’ Hardcastle waved a hand of dismissal. ‘But I shall be speaking to your squadron commander.’

  ‘Give my regards to young Hannah if you see her again, old boy.’ Etherington picked up his cap and sauntered out of the office.

  ‘That bloody girl’s got a lot to answer for, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle angrily, ‘and she’s about to do so.’

  Once Etherington had departed, Hardcastle stood up and took his hat and umbrella from the hatstand. But his departure was delayed by the arrival of Detective Inspector Charles Stockley Collins, head of Fingerprint Bureau.

  ‘Ah, Ernie, I’m glad I caught you,’ said Collins, as he stepped into the office.

  Collins was an expert in the developing science of fingerprint identification, and had given evidence in the case of the Stratton brothers in 1905. The Deptford oil shop murders became a landmark in criminal history. The two Strattons were convicted on the evidence of their fingerprints having been found on a cash box at the scene of the brutal murders of Thomas Farrow and his wife. It was the first time that such evidence had secured a conviction for murder. Many were to follow.

  ‘I hope you’ve got good news for me, Charlie,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Collins, taking a seat in one of the hard-backed chairs in the DDI’s office and opening a file. ‘There were fingerprints galore, but I couldn’t match any of them in my collection. And that included those on the champagne bottle. One set on the bottle was Georgina Cheney’s – I took a set of hers at the mortuary – but there was another set on there too, which so far I’ve been unable to identify.’

  ‘Somehow I didn’t expect that any of her visitors would have previous convictions, Charlie,’ said Hardcastle resignedly.

  ‘Once you catch the bugger, Ernie, I’ll be able to do some matching.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ said Hardcastle acidly. ‘That’s a great comfort.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector.’ After some considerable delay, during which time Hardcastle had hammered on the knocker several times, Hannah Clarke opened the door to admit the two detectives. She was wearing a floor-length pink satin dressing gown and silk slippers – all of which were probably Georgina Cheney’s, Hardcastle thou
ght – and her blonde hair was loose around her shoulders. She looked as though she had just tumbled out of bed.

  ‘Yes, it’s me, young lady, and I want a word with you,’ snapped Hardcastle, pushing his way through the door.

  ‘Whatever’s wrong?’ asked Hannah nervously, as she showed the two police officers into the sitting room.

  ‘For a start, you can tell me about these parties that Mrs Cheney held every week, parties that you somehow forgot to tell me about last time I was here. And, I’m told, it seems you took an active part in ’em.’

  ‘Whoever told you such a thing?’ Hannah was clearly alarmed at Hardcastle’s aggressive attitude.

  ‘Flight Sub-Lieutenant Leo Etherington for one, and Captain Guy Slater for another,’ said Hardcastle, sitting down and taking out his pipe.

  Hannah perched on the edge of an armchair. She might have been unnerved by Hardcastle’s aggressiveness, but was seemingly not embarrassed to be seen in a state of undress. ‘The mistress told me that I wasn’t to mention it to anyone, sir, seeing as how the master was away at sea and might not approve.’

  ‘I dare say your mistress was quite right,’ said Hardcastle, blowing tobacco smoke towards the ceiling. ‘I can’t imagine the commander approving of shenanigans of that sort. How often did these parties take place?’

  ‘About once a week, sir,’ said Hannah, confirming what Etherington had said.

  ‘What time did they start, Hannah?’ asked Marriott gently, realizing that Hardcastle’s hostile manner was unlikely to elicit truthful answers from the young housekeeper.

  ‘Usually about ten o’clock of an evening, sir. Being mostly flyers they wasn’t able to get here earlier,’ said Hannah. ‘The mistress said she felt sorry for these young men on account of they was fighting and likely to be shot down and killed any day. But it was just for a few drinks.’

  ‘Not what I heard,’ growled Hardcastle.

  ‘I believe there were other young ladies here,’ continued Marriott. ‘Who were they?’