by Graham Ison
EIGHT
The dwellings in Saxby Road were terraced and had probably been built early in Queen Victoria’s reign. The house in which Beatrice Groves lived was well maintained, its windows sparklingly clean and the doorstep freshly whitened.
The door was answered by a plump, jolly woman probably around forty years of age. At the sight of the two detectives, she whipped off her apron and secreted it behind her back.
‘Mrs Groves, is it? We’re police officers, madam,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But there’s nothing to concern yourself about,’ he added hurriedly.
‘Yes, I’m Beatrice Groves. I suppose you’ve come about poor Blanche.’
‘We have indeed, madam. I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’
‘You’d better come in.’ Mrs Groves showed them into the parlour at the front of the house and invited them to sit down. ‘From Whitehall, you say? I thought the Brixton police were dealing with this terrible business.’
‘They were originally,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but the head of the Criminal Investigation Department has asked me to look into it.’ He thought it unwise to mention that the thinking at Scotland Yard was that Blanche Hardy had fallen victim to a killer who went on to murder two other women.
‘Those other detectives didn’t seem too interested in what I had to tell them,’ said Beatrice Groves, ‘but I don’t know how you detectives do your work.’
‘I understand that you worked for Mrs Hardy, Mrs Groves.’ Hardcastle was not going to be drawn into a discussion about the shortcomings of the Brixton police.
‘For about eighteen months. I had to do something when my Billy was killed on the Somme in 1916. He put his age down and volunteered for the London Regiment. I told him not to go; that there were younger single men who still had to do their bit, but he wouldn’t listen. He’d never listen, my Billy.’
‘You were going to tell us about Mrs Hardy,’ said Hardcastle, gently steering Mrs Groves back to the purpose of his visit.
‘So I was. Now, where was I? Oh yes, I saw this advertisement in the newsagent’s asking for a cleaner. Well, I’d never done anything like that before; I’m a toffee maker by trade. The pension don’t amount to much, but I don’t suppose Billy thought it’d come to that. They was all convinced it’d be the other chap what got killed. But needs must when the devil drives, and Blanche took me on. I used to go round for a couple of hours three mornings a week to do for her. There wasn’t much to it; she was a tidy soul and seemed to be out more than she was in.’
‘We’ve been told that you got to know her well, Mrs Groves,’ said Marriott.
‘Yes, dear, we was more like friends than mistress and servant. I’d not been going round there more than a week when she told me to call her Blanche. I mean it didn’t seem right not to call her madam, but she wasn’t having any of it. Sometimes we’d sit in the kitchen and she’d pour her heart out, the poor dear.’
‘I’m told that she once had a housemaid. Do you know what happened to her?’
‘I don’t know who she was. She was never there when I was; she was only part time, you see. Blanche said as how she didn’t have much need for a maid because there was nothing for the girl to do now I was going in, so she let her go.’
‘When would that have been, Mrs Groves?’ asked Marriott.
‘About a year ago, I suppose, but I’m not sure.’ Beatrice Groves spent a few seconds staring at the empty fireplace before looking at Marriott again. ‘I rather got the impression that Blanche was a lonely soul, Sergeant, what with her husband being at the Front. A major he is, by all accounts. And I know what it is to worry about a man what’s mixed up in the fighting. Not that I have to worry about that any more.’ Her face took on a sad expression.
‘We’ve heard that Mrs Hardy had a number of gentlemen friends, Mrs Groves,’ said Hardcastle. ‘D’you know anything about that?’
‘She did mention that there was one or two gents, friends of her husband she said, what’d come round occasionally and take her out to supper or the theatre. But who’d blame her? I s’pose it stopped her worrying about her man and I know what that’s like. Reading the newspapers every day to see if your hubby was in the casualty lists.’
‘But surely you’d’ve been notified immediately if your husband had become a casualty,’ suggested Hardcastle.
‘Not always. Sometimes it took the War Office ages to tell you when someone had been killed or taken prisoner. It was them poor souls whose man was posted missing that was the worst. Not that it happened to me. My Billy was killed outright on the first day of the Somme. First of July 1916 that was. That General Haig sent our men out to be bloody well slaughtered by all accounts, if you’ll excuse my French.’
‘D’you happen to know the names of any of these gentlemen friends of Mrs Hardy?’ asked Marriott.
‘No, Blanche never mentioned who they was, and it wasn’t my place to ask.’
‘I’ve been told that Mrs Hardy was quite well off,’ said Hardcastle, changing the subject slightly.
‘Yes, she was. She mentioned once that her father had left her a tidy sum when he died. She told me that he’d owned a factory in Middlesbrough and that he’d made a lot of money out of making jam and biscuits and that sort of thing. She was certainly always dressed in beautiful clothes. As a matter of fact, she gave me one or two frocks that she said she didn’t need any more. Not that they fitted me,’ said Beatrice Groves, with a laugh. ‘But I was able to sell ’em.’
‘Did she happen to mention which plays she’d seen?’ asked Marriott.
‘Plays?’ For a moment or two, Mrs Groves gazed pensively out of the window. ‘There was only one she told me about. It was called Zig-Zag and it was on at the Hippodrome,’ she said eventually. ‘Blanche really enjoyed it because it made her laugh. Well, it would with that George Robey in it. I told her that having a good laugh would take her out of herself.’
‘Do you remember which night it was that she went?’
‘I was a Saturday. I only remember that particular time because it was the Saturday before Christmas, so that would have been—’
‘The twenty-second of December last,’ said Marriott, as he checked the date in his pocket diary.
‘Well, thank you for your assistance, Mrs Groves,’ said Hardcastle, rising to his feet. ‘You’ve been most helpful, but we might need to see you again.’
‘That’s all right, Inspector. I’m always here.’
The two detectives walked down Saxby Road towards Lyham Road in search of a cab.
‘Why did you ask that question about any of the plays that Mrs Hardy might’ve seen, Marriott?’
‘Having got the date and the theatre, sir, we might be able to find out who bought the tickets.’
‘You’re coming on a treat, Marriott.’ Hardcastle laughed. ‘But there are about thirteen hundred seats in the Hippodrome,’ he said, having made it his business to gather odd scraps of information like that. ‘Are you suggesting we interview everyone who bought tickets?’
‘It might come to that, sir,’ said Marriott, mildly irritated that the DDI had made fun of his initiative.
‘Perhaps so,’ said Hardcastle thoughtfully. ‘We certainly didn’t get much to help us from Mrs Groves, but at least she told us as much as she knew. Tomorrow we’ll see what these daredevil flyers at Sutton’s Farm have to say for themselves. Remind me to arrange it with Colonel Frobisher when we get back to the nick.’ He paused. ‘How do we get to Hornchurch, Marriott?’
Marriott knew that the question would be asked sooner or later. ‘Underground train from Westminster to Hornchurch, sir. It’s about an hour’s journey.’
‘Bugger that!’ exclaimed Hardcastle crossly. ‘I’m not travelling on an Underground train to carry out a murder enquiry. We’ll take a cab.’
‘That’ll cost a pretty penny, sir.’
‘We’re conducting three murder enquiries, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and I
’m not wasting time sitting on a bloody train for an hour when we can get there in half the time by taxi. If the Commissioner don’t like it, he can lump it.’
Wednesday morning was a dull and overcast day with intermittent showers. And to make matters worse, Hardcastle and Marriott had to stand in Bridge Street for at least ten minutes before the DDI sighted a cab.
‘D’you know where Sutton’s Farm is, cabbie?’ demanded Hardcastle.
‘What, the flying corps airfield near Hornchurch?’
‘That’s the place.’
‘Course I do, guv’nor, but it’ll cost yer.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Hardcastle, ‘because the Commissioner of Police is paying. And that means you don’t take us by the scenic route. Understood?’
‘Would I do such a thing, guv’nor?’ asked the cabbie plaintively, as he wrenched down the flag.
A sentry, wearing the distinctive wrap-over tunic of the Royal Flying Corps and holding a rifle with a fixed bayonet, stood motionless at the entrance to Royal Air Force, Sutton’s Farm. Behind him was a sign bearing the legend: 78 Squadron Royal Flying Corps.
‘I see they haven’t got around to changing that sign yet, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, and then addressed himself to the sentry. ‘We’re police officers,’ he announced.
‘There’s some military police officer waiting for you in the guardroom, mate,’ said the sentry, moving only his mouth.
‘It’s “inspector” to you, mate!’ snapped Hardcastle, and pushed open the door of the single-storey wooden hut behind the sentry.
‘Ah, you must be Inspector Hardcastle.’ The speaker was an army officer with crowns on his cuffs and a brassard bearing the letters DAPM on his right arm. ‘James Corrigan, Welsh Guards.’
‘I’m grateful for your assistance, Major Corrigan,’ said Hardcastle. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’
‘Perhaps if we adjourn to the mess for a cup of coffee, you would explain how you want to play this,’ said Corrigan.
The officers’ mess was on the far side of the airfield and as they walked around the perimeter a Sopwith Camel took off towards them. Hardcastle and Marriott ducked involuntarily.
‘They don’t fly that low, Inspector,’ said Corrigan, who had not even flinched. ‘They’ve lost too many pilots in combat for them to risk doing low-level aerobatics.’
There were six or seven officers seated in the mess. Most were reading newspapers or magazines such as The Field or the Illustrated London News, but one or two were writing letters. Neither Captain Slater nor Sub-Lieutenant Etherington was among them.
Once the coffee had been served, Corrigan asked, ‘What exactly do you want to do here, Inspector? Colonel Frobisher said you were investigating a murder, but he didn’t elaborate.’
Hardcastle explained about the murder of Georgina Cheney and told him of the parties at her house in Whilber Street that had been attended by officers from this squadron. He did not, however, mention the other two murders that he was now investigating. At least, not yet.
‘Sub-Lieutenant Etherington suggested that Major Lawford could vouch for his whereabouts on the night of the murder, and presumably he can also tell me where Captain Guy Slater was that night. There was also an officer known only as Jonno who also attended these parties and I’d like to have a word with him.’
‘In that case, we’ll start with Major Lawford,’ said Corrigan, only pausing to pick up his cap and don his Sam Browne as they left the mess.
It was a short walk to the squadron’s headquarters block where Major Lawford had his office.
‘Good morning, Monty.’ Corrigan led the way in and saluted.
‘Good day to you, James.’ Lawford, wearing Royal Flying Corps uniform, stood up and glanced enquiringly at the two detectives.
‘This is Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Metropolitan Police, Monty,’ said Corrigan, ‘and his assistant, Detective Sergeant Marriott.’
‘How d’you do, gentlemen. Montague Lawford.’ The squadron commander crossed the office and shook hands. ‘What can I do for the police? Not these young fools racing around the countryside in their motor cars again, surely.’ He paused and stroked his moustache. ‘No, I suppose not.’
‘It’s a little more serious than that, Major,’ said Hardcastle, as the four of them sat down. ‘I’m investigating a murder.’
‘If it was a German, it’s allowed,’ said Lawford jocularly, but seeing that his comment had not amused Hardcastle, he apologized. ‘Sorry, not a good joke. How d’you think I can help you?’
Once more, Hardcastle explained about the murder of Georgina Cheney and the parties she had held.
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Lawford. ‘D’you think that one of my officers might’ve murdered the woman, Inspector?’
‘It’s a possibility I’m bound to consider, Major. I’ve established that both Captain Slater and Sub-Lieutenant Etherington were present at these parties, but both those officers deny being there on the night of Tuesday the eleventh of June. Etherington assured me that you would be in a position to confirm that, as far as he was concerned.’
Lawford picked up his walking stick and rapped loudly on the wall. A sergeant appeared immediately.
‘Sergeant Devlin, be so good as to get me the duty log for …’ Lawford paused and glanced at Hardcastle. ‘The eleventh of June, you said?’
‘That’s correct,’ said Hardcastle.
‘You better bring the log for the twelfth as well, Sergeant Devlin.’
‘Won’t be a moment, sir.’
A minute later, Devlin returned with the two logs and placed them on Lawford’s desk.
‘Slater and Etherington,’ said Lawford, running his finger down the entries. ‘Captain Slater was on night patrol and took off at nine pip emma. He returned at two ack emma.’ He looked up. ‘That seems to let him off the hook, but according to the log Etherington was off duty until he reported for morning patrol on the twelfth at nine that morning.’
‘Have you any idea where Etherington might’ve been, Major?’ asked Marriott.
‘No. I don’t recall seeing him in the mess that evening, but he might’ve been in his quarters.’
‘Is there any way of checking that?’ Marriott had begun making a few notes.
‘I could ask around. Some of the other officers might have seen him, or he might’ve gone down to the local pub, the Dog and Duck, for a drink. It’s a great favourite.’
‘That would be helpful, Major,’ said Hardcastle. ‘There is one other officer that I was told attended these parties, but the only name I have is Jonno.’
‘Jonno?’ Lawford leaned back in his chair and surveyed the ceiling. ‘We’ve two or three officers here called John,’ he said, looking at Hardcastle again, ‘but the only one who’s known as Jonno is Lieutenant John Cavanaugh.’ He glanced at the log again. ‘But Cavanaugh was flying on the night in which you are interested, Inspector.’
‘Nevertheless, perhaps I could speak to him if he’s here, Major.’
Lawford glanced at a blackboard on the wall of his office on which was chalked names and times. ‘Yes, he should be. I’ll send for him. It might be better if you were to speak to him somewhere else, Inspector. If you question him with me here, he might be a bit reticent in telling the truth, if you know what I mean.’
‘I think that would be for the best. Would it be possible for me to speak to Etherington again?’
‘Certainly, I’ll arrange that for you.’ Once again, Lawford rapped on the wall with his walking stick.
‘Sergeant Devlin, see if you can find an empty office where Inspector Hardcastle could talk to an officer.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And then find Sub-Lieutenant Etherington and Lieutenant Cavanaugh and tell them to report to me.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Shouldn’t take long, Inspector,’ said Lawford, once Devlin had departed to make the necessary arrangements.
‘Would you prefer it if I stay
ed out of this, Inspector?’ asked Major Corrigan.
‘On the contrary, Major,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Your presence might just make young Etherington take this enquiry seriously. Last time I spoke to him, he didn’t seem too impressed by the gravity of the matter.’
Sergeant Devlin returned five minutes later. ‘Mr Etherington and Mr Cavanaugh are both on patrol, sir. They’ll be returning at one o’clock. I’ve found a spare room just along the corridor, sir.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant Devlin.’ Lawford stood up. ‘That settles it, then. Perhaps you gentlemen would care to join me in the mess for lunch. I’ll arrange for the two officers to be available from two o’clock onwards. Who would you like to see first, Inspector?’
‘Sub-Lieutenant Etherington, if you’d be so kind, Major,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Very good. Arrange that, Sergeant Devlin, would you?’
NINE
The lunch in the Sutton’s Farm officers’ mess had been a particularly good one. The three courses with wine, followed by port, caused Hardcastle later to observe that, war or no war, the Royal Air Force seemed to know how to take care of the important things in life.
At a quarter past two, Hardcastle, Marriott and Major Corrigan made their way to the room that Sergeant Devlin had set aside for them.
‘I took the liberty of asking Sergeant Devlin to arrange the room the way I thought you’d want it, Inspector,’ said Corrigan. ‘It’s the way the military police do things.’ Devlin had placed a table in the centre of the room with three chairs behind it and one in front, nearest the door. A shaft of sunlight shone through the window, illuminating the otherwise dull room. Corrigan moved one of three chairs back against the wall beneath the window, the reason for which became apparent later.
‘Admirable, Major, thank you,’ said Hardcastle, as he, Corrigan and Marriott sat down.
Outside, a number of aircraft engines burst into life, the revolutions increasing and then diminishing as the tiny Sopwith Camels climbed into the clearing sky.
The languid figure of Flight Sub-Lieutenant Etherington appeared immediately.