by Graham Ison
‘That’s putting the cart before the horse if you ask me,’ muttered the clerk and shook his head. ‘All very irregular,’ he added. ‘Wait here.’
‘Queer sort of cove, ain’t he, Marriott?’ said Hardcastle, as he gazed around the cluttered office in which two, more junior, clerks were at work.
‘Come this way, gentlemen,’ said the clerk, reappearing in the doorway. He led them up two flights of stairs to a small office in which a solitary figure was poring over a pile of papers. Although cramped, the garret room was furnished to accommodate at least three people, the two vacant desks piled high with briefs and other documents. There were four buckets of sand grouped in the fireplace as a precaution against incendiary bombs. ‘The police officers, sir.’
‘I’m Rollo Henson. The clerk said you have something to ask me.’ Henson was a tall man with handsome features, and longer than fashionable hair that was showing the first signs of greying around the temples, despite his being only thirty-five years old. His suit was of excellent quality and gold links adorned his shirt cuffs. A gold albert linked his two waistcoat pockets, passing through a specially cut hole between two buttons. Hardcastle had little doubt that there was an expensive gold watch at the end of it.
‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, sir, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’
‘Have a seat, gentlemen.’ Henson removed piles of briefs from a couple of chairs and dropped them on the floor, vaguely waving away the small cloud of dust that the careless act had created. ‘The clerk tells me you think I might have some evidence. I hope you’re not here to accuse me of withholding it,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘Not the done thing for a member of the bar,’ he said, settling himself behind his desk and turning sideways to face the detectives.
‘I’m investigating the murder of Mrs Georgina Cheney, Mrs Henson.’
‘Georgina’s been murdered?’ exclaimed Henson, his face registering shock at the news. ‘When was this?’
‘It was in all the newspapers, sir,’ said Hardcastle, as though the barrister should have known.
‘I’ve not had much time to read the papers, Inspector. We’re a bit shorthanded, what with the war and all.’
‘She was murdered at her home in Whilber Street, Westminster, last Tuesday evening.’
‘In Westminster, you say? I didn’t even know she was in England. The last time I saw Georgina was in Malta, a couple of years before the war started.’
‘She moved to this country in 1913, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘Shortly after her husband was posted back to the United Kingdom.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Henson. ‘I left Malta at the end of 1912. I’d been practising at the Maltese bar, but decided that there was more to offer back here.’
‘I understand that you had an affair with Mrs Cheney in Malta, Mr Henson.’ Hardcastle put the accusation bluntly.
‘It’s no secret, Inspector, but I didn’t know she was married at the time otherwise I wouldn’t have got involved with her.’ Henson reached for a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Hardcastle.
‘No thank you, sir. I’m a pipe smoker.’
‘Please carry on, Inspector.’ Henson offered the packet to Marriott.
‘No thank you, sir,’ said Marriott, shaking his head.
‘You didn’t know that Mrs Cheney was married to a naval officer, then.’ Hardcastle filled his pipe and spent a moment or two lighting it.
‘No, I certainly didn’t, at least not immediately. I suppose she must’ve been in her mid-twenties when I met her.’ Henson gazed across the room, collecting his thoughts. ‘It was at a ball at Admiralty House, but I assumed that she was a widow. Then a friend of mine who knew the family told me she was married to a naval chap, but that he’d gone back to England. I must say it came as a surprise. One doesn’t expect married women to behave like that, especially in a closed social community like Valletta where everyone knows everyone else’s business.’
‘And you’ve not seen her since, sir?’ queried Marriott.
‘Certainly not. I didn’t want to finish up fighting a duel with her husband,’ said Henson, with a wry smile, ‘and I had my own career to consider. As I said just now, I came back to England in December 1912. I was married to Lydia in 1914 – on the Saturday before war broke out as a matter of fact.’
‘Weren’t you tempted to enlist, sir?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘That was certainly my intention, and I joined the Inns of Court Officer Training Corps. But almost immediately I was briefed to appear for the Crown in a sensitive case connected with the war and I’ve been appearing in similar cases ever since. I can’t give you any details, Inspector, but you wouldn’t expect me to, would you?’ said Henson. ‘And before you ask, because I know it’s the sort of question policemen do ask, I was at a bar mess dinner last Tuesday evening. And, God help us, it went on until one o’clock in the morning. There were two High Court judges and about thirty other barristers there, which is a pretty good alibi,’ he said with a smile.
‘I think that’d stand up to cross-examination at the Bailey, sir.’ Hardcastle laughed. ‘Do you happen to know of anyone else that Mrs Cheney might’ve been particularly friendly with?’
‘Someone with whom she had an affair, you mean?’
‘Exactly so.’
‘Yes, there was one young army officer.’ Henson stubbed out his cigarette in a brass ashtray. ‘It was after I’d parted company with her that I heard that this chap was paying a lot of attention to her.’
‘D’you remember his name, sir?’
‘Ah, now you’re asking.’ Henson paused in thought. ‘I know he was in the Royal Engineers. Yes, got it. Leighton Garside was his name. Single fellow, about Georgina’s age I’d’ve thought. But he was still squiring her when I left for home. They were both quite open about it by all accounts. Very foolish of both of them, and likely to have got a young subaltern into hot water, I imagine. Not that I know much about how the army views these things.’
‘Are you sure it was Leighton Garside, sir?’ queried Marriott, glancing up from his pocketbook. ‘Sounds a strange sort of Christian name.
‘I believe so,’ said Henson. ‘He was always known as Leighton.’
‘I think that’ll be all for the time being, sir,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott stood up. ‘And thank you for being so frank. I’ll have to see whether this Garside fellow can shed any light on my enquiry.’
‘I hope you find whoever killed her, Inspector,’ said Henson as he shook hands. ‘Young Georgina was a wayward girl, but she didn’t deserve to be murdered. I hope you find the fellow who did it.’
‘Oh, I’ll find the bugger, sir, you can rest assured of that. It won’t be long before he’s standing on the hangman’s trap.’
‘Yes, quite so, Inspector, but perhaps you’d let me know when you arrest him. I wouldn’t want to finish up defending him; it would be a conflict of interests apart from anything else.’
‘All we have to do now is find this Garside chap, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, when they returned to the police station.
‘But it was six years ago that he was in Malta, sir. For all we know he might be dead and buried in Flanders by now.’ Marriott could not understand why Hardcastle was so insistent on pursuing Georgina Cheney’s Maltese affairs.
‘You’re a pessimistic bugger at times, Marriott. Look on the bright side.’
‘On the other hand, sir, he might’ve been thrown out of the army if his affair with a married woman became known. Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman I think they call it.’
‘Well, there’s one way of finding out, Marriott. We’ll have a word with the APM first thing tomorrow.’ Hardcastle shook his head wearily. ‘I thought for once that we wouldn’t need to involve the army.’
The Assistant Provost Marshal of London District was Lieutenant Colonel Ralph Frobisher of the Sherwood Foresters whose office was in Horse Guards Arch.
As the two
detectives walked into the gloomy archway from Whitehall, the dismounted sentry came to attention and raised his sword to the salute. Hardcastle was not entitled to such a compliment, but sentries in central London tended to err on the side of caution whenever they sighted a smartly dressed man in a bowler hat. Hardcastle hooked his umbrella over his left arm and solemnly raised his hat in acknowledgement as he and Marriott entered Frobisher’s office.
‘Good morning, Inspector,’ said Sergeant Glover, the APM’s chief clerk. ‘The colonel’s free if you’d like to go through.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant Glover,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott entered the inner office.
‘Good morning, Inspector.’ Frobisher rose from behind his desk when the two detectives entered and shook hands with each of them. ‘And what difficult questions do you have for me today?’ The APM was accustomed to Hardcastle’s frequent visits and the sometimes tortuous problems that he wanted solving.
Hardcastle furnished Frobisher with the details of Georgina Cheney’s murder before getting to the point of his visit. ‘We have learned that she was born and brought up in Malta, Colonel. We have also learned that after her husband was posted back to England, Mrs Cheney was left alone in Malta for almost a year before moving to London. During the time she was separated from her husband she had several affairs.’
‘It happens, Inspector,’ replied Frobisher sagely.
‘I’ve been told that one of her paramours was a young army officer named Leighton Garside of the Royal Engineers who was stationed in Malta before the war.’
‘And I suppose you want me to find him for you,’ suggested Frobisher with a smile.
‘That would be most helpful to my enquiries, Colonel,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Particularly if Garside is now in England.’
‘Well, we’d better begin at the beginning,’ said Frobisher, and shouted for Sergeant Glover.
‘Sir?’ Glover appeared in the open doorway.
‘Fetch me the 1912 order of battle, Sarn’t Glover. It’s in the safe.’
When Glover reappeared, he placed a large leatherbound volume on the colonel’s desk.
Frobisher spent a few minutes turning the pages and running his forefinger up and down its columns. Eventually he looked up. ‘It looks likely that he was attached to one of the two fortress companies based in Malta at that time, Mr Hardcastle. It would have been either 24 Company or 28 Company.’
‘I see,’ said Hardcastle, who was not greatly interested in the particular unit to which Garside had been attached. ‘Is there going to be a problem finding out where he is now?’
‘That rather depends,’ said Frobisher. ‘For all I know he might be languishing in a grave somewhere in Flanders or Egypt or Gallipoli or even Mesopotamia. The trouble with the Sappers,’ he continued, closing the large book, ‘is that they serve all over the place. If he’d belonged to an infantry regiment of the line it would have been easier to track him down. However, I’ll do what I can, but it may take some considerable time.’
‘Thank you, Colonel.’ Hardcastle was always irritated that the army appeared to approach such matters in what he perceived to be a leisurely fashion. But he failed to appreciate the difficulties the military authorities faced in tracing a man when there were over three million troops under arms in different parts of the globe.
‘There is another possibility, Colonel,’ suggested Marriott.
‘What might that be, Sergeant Marriott?’
‘Apparently Garside was quite open about his affair with Mrs Cheney and I gather that the army tends to frown on that sort of behaviour. We’ve been told that he frequently escorted Georgina Cheney to balls at Admiralty House. It’s been suggested to us that this wasn’t too clever a thing to do in a place like Valletta where such affairs tend to be open secrets.’
‘Are you suggesting that he might’ve been invited to resign his commission?’
‘You’ll know better than me how the army deals with such behaviour, Colonel,’ said Hardcastle.
‘If his conduct became too obvious, I’ve no doubt that his colonel would’ve had a few sharp words to say to him. However, I’ll start by sending for his record of service from the War House. I’ll let you know when I have anything, Inspector, but I must warn you that it could take some time,’ Frobisher said again.
In the event, Frobisher achieved a result far more quickly than even he had anticipated. That afternoon Hardcastle received a telephone call from Sergeant Glover asking him to call at the APM’s office.
‘It was easier than I thought, Inspector,’ said Frobisher, once Hardcastle and Marriott were seated in the APM’s office. ‘Leighton Garside is now a lieutenant colonel currently commanding one of the Royal Engineers’ depot battalions and is based at Aldershot.’
‘A lieutenant colonel?’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘His little dalliance in Malta don’t seem to have done him any harm, then, Colonel.’
‘It would have been different if he’d been cited in a divorce, Inspector, but in fact I think it was the prospect of war that saved Garside’s career.’
‘D’you mean that otherwise he’d’ve got the sack, Colonel?’ asked Marriott.
‘It’s doubtful. But even as long ago as 1912 the army foresaw problems in the Balkans and it’s likely he was let off with a dressing down.’ Frobisher gave a wry smile. ‘And the wisdom of that has been proved since the war began. The terrible drain on officers since 1914 means that the army is now commissioning just about anyone. Consequently, a trained regular officer is worth his weight in gold. I heard the other day of a greengrocer who’d been commissioned, but at least they had the sense to gazette him to the Army Service Corps. Still specializing in greengrocery, but in uniform, as it were.’
‘Do you know the outcome of Garside’s affair with Mrs Cheney, then, Colonel?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘There’s a brief note on his record. It would appear that when the liaison came to light, his commanding officer read him the Riot Act. He also warned him that he was within a whisker of getting cashiered if he didn’t straighten himself out.’ Frobisher glanced up from the file he was reading. ‘The CO’s view was that Garside’s offence was exacerbated because Mrs Cheney was the wife of a serving naval officer.’
‘Does that mean it would’ve been all right if she’d been married to an army officer?’ asked Hardcastle mischievously.
‘Garside’s colonel would probably have thought that to be even worse, Inspector,’ said Frobisher, mistaking the DDI’s comment for a serious observation. ‘Mind you, a hell of a lot of that sort of thing went on in India, particularly in the foothills in summer,’ he added with a sigh. ‘However, the upshot was that the CO arranged for what could best be described as a punishment posting back to England. Garside was sent to a training regiment, and believe me that’s nearly as bad for the staff as it is for the recruits.’
‘I’d like to interview Colonel Garside,’ said Hardcastle.
Frobisher raised his eyebrows. ‘D’you think he might’ve had something to with this dreadful business, Inspector?’
‘It’s a possibility that has to be considered, Colonel. I’m afraid that Georgina Cheney’s need for male company appears to have continued even after she came to London,’ said Hardcastle. ‘And more so since her husband went to sea. I’ve been told that she regularly held parties for young officers at her house in Whilber Street. It seems that they started quite late and one favoured officer was apparently invited at random to share her bed for the night. The officer who got second prize, so to speak, spent the night with the housemaid,’ he added impishly.
‘Ye gods!’ exclaimed Frobisher. ‘Have you any idea who these officers were? I shall speak to their commanding officer.’
‘They’re stationed at Sutton’s Farm near Hornchurch, Colonel,’ said Hardcastle. ‘They’re in this newfangled Royal Air Force, and I intend to go down there because it’s likely that I’ll find some more of their officers who might assist me in my enquiries.’
‘In that
case I’ll speak to the DAPM who’s stationed there, Inspector, and ask him to arrange an appointment for you. I hope it will prove fruitful.’ But Frobisher was already feeling sorry for the officers concerned; the A Division DDI was not the most gentle of interrogators.
‘Doesn’t this here RAF have a police force of its own, then, Colonel?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Not yet,’ said Frobisher. ‘Apparently the new RAF is still in the act of establishing itself. They are rather busy fighting the war, and until it’s over, the army has undertaken to provide provost and other services on their behalf.’
‘I see,’ said Hardcastle, not really seeing at all. ‘However, I’ll go first to Aldershot to interview Colonel Garside.’
‘If you speak to Captain McIntyre of the Gordon Highlanders, Inspector, he’s one of my provost officers, and he’ll be able to point you in the right direction. Aldershot’s a bit of a minefield.’
‘A minefield?’ exclaimed Hardcastle, with a straight face. ‘Things haven’t got that bad, surely, Colonel.’
‘Not quite, Inspector,’ said Frobisher, not realizing that Hardcastle was joking. ‘Merely a turn of phrase. Let me know when you intend to go down there and I’ll alert McIntyre.’
‘Thank you, Colonel, and I’ll advise you when I intend to go to Sutton’s Farm.’
SIX
As it was a Sunday, Hardcastle knew that he had no chance of asking Colonel Frobisher to arrange a visit to the Royal Air Force at Sutton’s Farm until Monday. As a consequence, his interview with the RAF officers who knew Georgina Cheney would have to wait, and he reluctantly decided to spend the day at home.
After breakfast he took his usual stroll down to Horace Boxall’s corner shop in Kennington Road to buy his tobacco and the News of the World.
‘I see the French put a stop to Ludendorff’s attack near Soissons, Mr Hardcastle.’ Without waiting for the DDI to place his order, Boxall put the newspaper, an ounce of St Bruno and a box of matches on the counter. ‘It says here,’ he continued, pointing to the front-page article, ‘that Foch’s lot had two hundred tanks and they used mustard gas. I’ll bet that made old Fritz stop and think.’