by Graham Ison
‘It looks as though the tide is turning at last, Horace,’ said Hardcastle. ‘And about time too. I just thank God that the Americans joined in last year.’ He placed a half-crown on the counter and pocketed the change that Boxall counted out into the small tray.
‘Talking of which,’ Boxall went on, ‘I see that President Wilson has got all hot under the collar about some film in America. According to a piece in one of the papers, the film had scenes in it of German atrocities against the Belgians, and the audiences lapped it up. But it turned out that it had all been filmed in New Jersey. Blew up in their faces as you might say.’
‘I sometimes think that propaganda does more harm than good, Horace.’ Hardcastle picked up his newspaper, tobacco and matches, and made his way home.
For once all the Hardcastle family was together. Kitty, the eldest, had at last been obliged to relinquish her temporary position as a conductorette with the London General Omnibus Company, much to Hardcastle’s relief. Men discharged from the Colours as no longer fit for active service were nonetheless capable of resuming their former jobs as omnibus conductors. Kitty, never wanting to be idle, was wondering what to do next.
Maud, now a very mature twenty-year-old, was an auxiliary nurse at one of the big houses in Park Lane given over to the care of wounded officers and would not begin night duty until five o’clock that afternoon.
‘Well, Wally, are you looking forward to your new career as a postman?’ asked Hardcastle, relaxing in his armchair and replete after one of Alice’s Sunday roast lunches.
‘Not really, Pa. Taking them telegrams was doing something useful.’ Walter, the Hardcastles’ eighteen-year-old son, was now too old to continue his job as a telegram messenger, and would be starting his new career as a fully fledged postman at five the following morning. He was still fretting at being unable to enlist, but the recruiting sergeant at the local town hall had told him that the war was nearly over and they had enough men. Although thankful to hear that news, Hardcastle was still unsure that the sergeant had been right to be so optimistic.
‘It’s those telegrams, Wally, not them telegrams,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Anyway I could never see that you got much satisfaction from delivering telegrams to people telling them that their loved one had been killed or badly wounded.’
‘It was the ones that told them that their man was safe, Pa. That was the good news. Anyway, there’s not much future in being a postman.’
‘You don’t have to stay a postman for the rest of your life. There will always be the chance of promotion if you work hard enough. You could finish up in management.’
‘Not for me,’ exclaimed Walter firmly. He paused, wondering how best once again to put his ambition to his father, and knowing what his reaction would be. ‘I want to join the police.’
‘Ah!’ Hardcastle knew that his son would renew his oft-expressed desire to follow in his footsteps. He spent a few silent moments filling his pipe and lighting it while considering how best to dissuade the boy. ‘You’d have to start at the bottom,’ he said, waving out his match and dropping it into the ashtray. ‘Ten weeks training for a start, learning the law and your powers of arrest; and that’s followed by two more exams before you complete probation. It’s hard work, believe me.’ He spoke as though familiar with the format, but his own training, twenty-seven years ago, had been far more rudimentary.
‘Yes, I know all that, Pa.’
‘And promotion’s hard to come by,’ continued Hardcastle. ‘It took me twenty-three years to get to my present rank and I’m now forty-seven. I’ve got to wait another three years before I can retire on a full pension. And another thing: you’ll have a lot to live up to because they’ll soon find out your old man’s a DDI.’
To Hardcastle’s surprise, Walter threw back his head and laughed. ‘I do believe you’re trying to talk me out of it, Pa.’
‘Well, I just want you to know what you’ll be up against, son. And when you get married, you’ll have to find a woman who’ll put up with being a copper’s wife. And there aren’t many about like your mother.’
‘Amen to that,’ murmured Alice, seated in the other armchair and busily knitting.
‘It’s no good, Pa; my mind’s set on it.’
‘Well, you’ve another eighteen months to think it over carefully because you can’t join until you’re twenty. What’s more you’ve got to remember that there’ll be a lot of men who’ll be coming back after this war’s over, and many of them will make good policemen. They’ll probably tell you to enlist in the Brigade of Guards for three years and then try again.’
‘Well,’ said Walter, with an air of finality, ‘they can only turn me down, but I’m going to try.’
‘Charles has suggested that we get married next year,’ said Maud, coming to her brother’s aid by changing the subject.
‘What?’ Hardcastle turned to face his youngest daughter, surprise etched large on his face. ‘But how d’you know that the war will be over by then, Maud? You and Charles both said you’d wait until the end of hostilities. And anyway it’s only three months since you got engaged.’
Charles Spencer, then a lieutenant in the Loyal Regiment, had been nursed back to health by Maud following a war wound. He had proposed to her in March and, with her parents’ blessing, she had accepted.
‘Charles is a captain now and has been told that he’s been accepted for a regular commission,’ said Maud, ‘so I can look forward to being an officer’s wife.’
‘Yes, and you might finish up in India, my lass. I’ve heard that the climate there is dreadful.’
‘It is,’ said Alice, who had been born in Peshawar, where her father had been serving as a sergeant with the Royal Garrison Artillery at the time of her birth. ‘And your husband will be away on patrol a lot of the time.’
‘I suppose Charles hasn’t got any eligible friends, has he?’ enquired Kitty wistfully, interrupting this talk of marriage. Unfortunately, her self-confidence and strong-willed temperament managed to dissuade most men from thoughts of matrimony.
‘It looks as though we’ll be losing all our family soon,’ said Alice gloomily. She put down her knitting and stood up. ‘I think I’ll make a cup of tea.’
Monday morning saw Hardcastle relieved to get away from the travails of family life, but at once wondering how he was to pay for a wedding that now looked as though it would take place next year. He knew that he could not economize; undoubtedly Charles Spencer’s brother officers would be there in force and they would expect Hardcastle to put on a good show.
But his preoccupation with his mounting financial problems was interrupted by the entry of Sergeant Marriott.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘How old is your daughter, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle bluntly.
‘My daughter, sir?’ Marriott was taken aback to be greeted by such a question. ‘She’s, um, seven, I think, sir. Yes,’ he said, after some thought, ‘she’s seven, but why d’you ask?’
‘Take a word of advice, Marriott. Start saving for the wedding now.’
Marriott laughed. ‘I think I’ve got plenty of time before I start worrying about that, sir.’
‘That’s what I thought, Marriott,’ muttered the DDI, ‘but now Maud tells me she proposes to marry next year.’
‘Please offer her my congratulations, sir. Well, mine and Lorna’s.’
‘Thank you, Marriott.’ Hardcastle placed his pipe in his pocket. ‘But right now we’ve got a murder to worry about.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I think this would be as good a time as any to go to Aldershot and speak to this here Colonel Garside. Give Sergeant Glover at the APM’s office a call on that telephone thing and ask him if Colonel Frobisher would be kind enough to alert Captain McIntyre.’ Although a telephone had recently been installed in Hardcastle’s office, he had no intention of using it, regarding it as a newfangled invention that would not last.
‘We met Captain McIntyre last year, sir, when we were investigating the murder at the bureau d
e change at Victoria station.’
‘So we did, Marriott, so we did. I thought I recognized the name.’
A Vauxhall staff car bearing military police insignia was parked immediately outside Aldershot railway station. As Hardcastle and Marriott approached, its military police corporal snapped to attention and saluted. ‘Inspector Hardcastle, sir?’
‘That’s me, Corporal.’
‘I’m to take you to Captain McIntyre’s office, sir.’
Within ten minutes the car had arrived between the forbidding lines of the three-storey blocks of Salamanca Barracks, and the corporal pointed out Captain McIntyre’s office.
Hardcastle and Marriott alighted, and the DDI pushed open a door marked MILITARY POLICE.
‘Ah, there you are, Inspector. Hector McIntyre.’ The tall Gordon Highlanders officer crossed the room and shook hands with the DDI and Marriott. He was wearing a kilt of the Gordon tartan, a sporran that came to his knees, and a khaki tunic with a cutaway skirt and a brassard bearing the letters MP. ‘Good to see you again. Colonel Frobisher told me that you’ve another murder to deal with.’
‘Indeed, Captain McIntyre.’
‘Another soldier is it?’ McIntyre asked with a laugh. ‘That’s the trouble with soldiers: we teach ’em to kill people and they go about doing it.’
‘It’s not necessarily a soldier who did the deed this time, Captain McIntyre, but there is an officer here in Aldershot who might be able to give me some information.’
‘Aye, the APM mentioned that you wanted to see a Colonel Garside of the Sappers. He’s in command of a Royal Engineers’ depot battalion. I took the liberty of making an appointment for you to see him this afternoon.’ McIntyre glanced at his watch. ‘In the meantime, I dare say you could down a dram or two and see off a spot of lunch in the mess, eh?’
‘That would be most welcome, Captain.’
After lunch, McIntyre and the two CID officers were driven from the officers’ mess to Barossa Barracks at South Camp. McIntyre then escorted Hardcastle and Marriott to the headquarters block where Lieutenant Colonel Leighton Garside had his office.
Hardcastle had always believed that colonels in home stations would be quite old men, usually with a bushy moustache, a monocle and some physical impairment. But that was probably because most of the officers of that rank that he had met in the past were what the army called ‘dugouts’: retired officers unfit for active duty who had been recalled to the Colours to replace their fitter colleagues.
Hardcastle knew from Dudley ffrench’s description, however, that Leighton Garside was a young man, and he could see that this officer was probably in his early thirties and was clean-shaven. His tunic bore the ribbons of the Military Cross and the 1914–15 Star.
‘The two police officers I mentioned, Colonel,’ said McIntyre, saluting as he showed the two detectives into Garside’s office. He turned to Hardcastle. ‘I’ve arranged for the car to be outside to take you back to the railway station when you’re finished here, Inspector.’ He faced the colonel and saluted again. ‘Colonel.’
‘Leighton Garside, gentlemen.’ Once McIntyre had departed, the colonel crossed the office and shook hands with Hardcastle and Marriott.
‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of Scotland Yard, Colonel.’ When out of London, Hardcastle often claimed to be from Commissioner’s Office, imagining it gave him a status that he did not need. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’
‘Please take a seat,’ said Garside, as he sat down behind his desk. ‘I have to admit to being somewhat mystified as to why you should wish to see me.’
‘I’m investigating a murder that took place in Whilber Street, Westminster, a week ago, Colonel.’
‘I still don’t understand …’ Garside began.
‘The victim’s name was Georgina Cheney, formerly Heath,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Garside. ‘Somebody’s murdered Gina?’
‘You obviously remember her,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Indeed I do. A sweet girl. We had a fling in Malta back in, what, 1912? Yes, that would be right.’ Garside grinned boyishly. ‘Damn near cost me my commission, but it was worth it.’
‘You did know, I suppose, that she was married to a naval officer at the time.’
‘Yes, I did, but what the hell. I was about twenty-seven at the time and still a lieutenant and to be honest I was thinking of quitting the army. I got a hell of a roasting from my colonel when he found out about the affair and he sent me back to Blighty with a black mark against my name. To this very unit as a matter of fact. But then the war started and suddenly there were more important things to think about than casual affairs.’
‘Did you ever visit Mrs Cheney in England, Colonel?’ asked Marriott.
‘No. The last time I saw Gina was when she came down to the port at Valletta to wave me off when I went home in disgrace. I wasn’t aware that she was in England. Not a very wise move, considering the Zeppelin and Gotha raids. How did she die, as a matter of interest?’
‘She was strangled and thrown out of her bedroom window,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Bloody hell! Well that lets me out.’ Using his right hand, Garside lifted his left arm and dropped it on the desk with a thump. ‘It’s made of tin.’ The detectives noticed for the first time that the colonel wore a black glove on his left hand. ‘I can manage a lot of things since I lost most of my arm, but strangling someone ain’t one of them.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize,’ said Hardcastle, furious with himself for failing to notice Garside’s disability.
‘I was with a tunnelling company sapping under the Messines Ridge. You must’ve heard about the mines that were set off a year ago.’
‘A magnificent effort, Colonel,’ murmured Hardcastle.
‘I was commanding a company at the time, but we had a fall in the shaft and my left arm was trapped. There was nothing the medics could do but cut it off.’ Garside shrugged as he thought back to that day and with it the agonizing belief that he was destined to die trapped beneath the German lines. But then a brave medical officer, himself in great danger from a further fall, crawled along the tunnel and carried out a primitive and immediate amputation. ‘By the time the mines were set off, I was in the base hospital at Boulogne, but I felt the tremors even there. They were kind enough to give me a medal for my pains, made me a half colonel and sent me back here again,’ he added, speaking with a measure of cynicism. ‘It doesn’t really look as though I can help you any further, gentlemen.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I understand from other people I’ve spoken to that Mrs Cheney had quite a reputation for being a good-time girl.’
‘I don’t think there’s much doubt about that, Inspector.’ Garside took a pipe from an ashtray, and using one hand adroitly filled it from a tobacco jar. ‘I thought she might get herself into trouble one day. Not being murdered so much as finishing up with an unwanted pregnancy,’ he added, lighting his pipe.
‘D’you mind if I smoke, Colonel?’ asked Hardcastle, taking out his pipe.
‘Good heavens no. My apologies. Here, help yourself.’ Garside pushed his tobacco jar across the desk.
‘Was there anyone else you knew of that she might’ve been having an affair with, Colonel?’ asked Hardcastle, once his pipe was alight with Garside’s tobacco.
Garside laughed at Hardcastle’s query. ‘Quite a few, I imagine. She was hardly what you’d call the soul of discretion. I seem to recall that I took her over from a lawyer fellow, name of Henson, but I’ve no idea what happened to him.’
‘No one else, Colonel?’ queried Marriott. Neither he nor Hardcastle had any intention of telling Garside that Henson had already been interviewed.
Garside shook his head. ‘As I said, there were probably quite a few, but I don’t remember any other names.’
‘God damn it, Marriott!’ exclaimed Hardcastle, once he and his sergeant were seated on the train back to London. ‘We�
�re getting nowhere with this damned murder.’
‘The Air Force people at Hornchurch might be able to shed some light on it, sir.’
‘Maybe, although I’ve got me doubts. Nevertheless we’ll have to try.’
But when Hardcastle arrived back at his office at Cannon Row police station, a message was awaiting him, the outcome of which would make his task even more difficult than it was at present.
‘Sir,’ said Detective Inspector Rhodes, appearing on the threshold of the DDI’s office.
‘What is it, Mr Rhodes?’
‘While you were at Aldershot, sir, a message came across from the Yard. You’re to see Detective Chief Inspector Wensley as soon as possible.’
‘What does the Elephant want, I wonder?’ said Hardcastle, using the name by which the head of the CID was known throughout the Metropolitan Police because of the size of his nose. It was a sobriquet less complimentary than the one used by the press, to whom he was known as ‘Ace’ Wensley on account of his detective prowess.
SEVEN
Pausing only to pick up his bowler hat and umbrella, Hardcastle crossed the courtyard and ascended the steps of Commissioner’s Office. Raising his hat in acknowledgement of the salute afforded him by the constable on duty at the entrance, he walked along the main corridor and tapped on the door that bore Wensley’s name.
‘DDI Hardcastle of A, sir. You wished to see me?’
The fifty-three-year-old Detective Chief Inspector Frederick Wensley was in every sense a big man. He was soberly dressed in a dark suit and a wing collar, and sported a pearl pin in his grey tie. His impressive record as a detective, spanning some twenty-three years, had included the solving of numerous murders and robberies, and in 1911 he had stood beside Winston Churchill at the Sidney Street Siege, characteristically armed with only an umbrella. Furthermore, he was one of those rare officers with a modernistic approach to police work and was always on the lookout for improving methods of detection rather than relying on old techniques. Originally a teetotaller, he had begun to drink when he found that informants did not trust a detective who refused to drink with them.