by Graham Ison
‘I’ve been told you want to see me again, Inspector.’ It was then that Etherington noticed the DAPM sitting in a corner of the room. ‘Oh, this looks serious,’ he said.
‘Sit down,’ said Hardcastle sharply.
‘I do not intend to involve myself in this interview, Mr Etherington,’ said Corrigan, ‘other than to advise you to answer the inspector’s questions truthfully. It’s a very serious matter he’s dealing with.’
‘I’ve told you everything I know about Gina Cheney, Inspector, if that’s what this is about,’ protested Etherington mildly, but nonetheless he appeared somewhat apprehensive.
‘When we spoke to you last Friday, Mr Etherington, you told us that on the night of Tuesday the eleventh of June you were flying.’ Marriott was looking at his notes as he spoke, as though he was quite happy with what Etherington had said previously.
‘Yes, I was.’
‘But you weren’t, were you?’ Marriott looked up and concentrated his gaze on Etherington. ‘My inspector has spoken to Major Lawford and he informed him that you were off duty that evening. So, where were you?’
‘I think there must be some mistake. I’m sure I was flying. Sergeant Devlin keeps the logs and he sometimes gets the entries wrong, don’t you know.’
Major Corrigan frowned, but remained silent. By his code of conduct it was bad form for an officer to lay blame on a subordinate for anything.
Hardcastle took out his pipe and began slowly to fill it. ‘Right now, Etherington, I’m sorely tempted to arrest you on suspicion of murdering Georgina Cheney,’ he said mildly. It was a statement that surprised even Major Corrigan, to say nothing of Etherington’s shock at the accusation.
‘Oh God!’ Beads of sweat appeared on the young officer’s brow. ‘I was at her house that night, but I had nothing to do with her murder. I didn’t even go inside.’
‘Ah, now we’re getting there,’ said Hardcastle. ‘What were you doing at Mrs Cheney’s house?’
‘I called for Hannah Clarke, the maid, and took her to see Charlie Chaplin in A Dog’s Life at the Bioscope in Vauxhall Bridge Road. Not my sort of movie, I have to say, but that’s where she wanted to go so I took her.’
‘You have seriously obstructed me in a case of murder, Etherington,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and if you weren’t engaged in defending London in that flying machine of yours, I’d nick you right now and charge you with that offence.’ But the DDI’s fury was more with Hannah Clarke who had deceived him yet again. Flight Sub-Lieutenant Etherington certainly did not fit the description of ‘a footman from one of the houses down the road’ with whom Hannah claimed to have spent the evening. He determined that he would have another serious word with Commander Cheney’s newly appointed housekeeper.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector,’ said the now thoroughly contrite Etherington, ‘but I didn’t want to get Hannah into trouble.’
‘You’d better tell us exactly what happened,’ said Marriott, turning to a fresh page in his pocketbook.
‘I called for Hannah at about six o’clock. I knocked at the front door and she answered it. I asked her if she wanted to come out with me and she said that she’d like to see Charlie Chaplin in some film that was showing locally. She wouldn’t let me in, but told me to wait in the street while she changed and got her hat and coat. We took a cab to Vauxhall Bridge Road and after the movie I treated her to supper and brought her back home. Again in a cab.’
‘Did you go into the house when you returned to Whilber Street?’ asked Marriott.
‘No, unfortunately. Hannah said that her mistress was probably asleep and she didn’t want to disturb her.’
‘So,’ said Hardcastle, ‘despite spending money on two cab fares, the cost of getting into the picture house and the price of a couple of suppers, you didn’t get the bit of jig-a-jig you was expecting.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ protested Etherington.
‘I didn’t come up the Clyde on a bicycle, Etherington, and don’t take me for a fool,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You’d slept with her once before and you fully expected to do so again.’ He stated that as a matter of fact, rather than one of speculation.
‘Yes,’ said Etherington, with obvious reluctance, ‘but that was after one of Gina’s parties.’
‘How well did you know Blanche Hardy?’ Hardcastle asked suddenly.
Etherington’s face assumed a blank expression. ‘I don’t know anyone of that name.’
‘Or Hazel Lacey?’
‘No. Were they at Gina’s parties? There were a few girls there who I didn’t know.’
‘Get out before I change my mind about arresting you,’ snapped Hardcastle crossly, ‘and send in Cavanaugh.’
‘I’m sorry, Inspector,’ said Etherington again, and stood up, still visibly shaking after his bruising encounter with the DDI.
‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Inspector,’ said Corrigan, once Etherington had left the room. ‘You certainly know how to get the truth out of people.’
‘I’ve had plenty of experience,’ said Hardcastle tersely. Although Major Corrigan was a likeable fellow, it was obvious to the DDI that a Welsh Guards officer recently seconded to the Military Foot Police had a lot to learn about the art of interrogation.
The door opened and Lieutenant John Cavanaugh, attired in the uniform of the Royal Flying Corps, appeared in the room.
‘I understand that you wanted to see me, Inspector.’
‘You understood correctly. Sit down.’
Cavanaugh glanced at Major Corrigan, saluted, removed his cap and took the seat vacated by Etherington. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ he asked.
‘Not at all,’ said Hardcastle, taking the opportunity to relight his pipe.
‘Thank you.’ Cavanaugh withdrew a gold case and spent a brief moment selecting a cigarette. He appeared perfectly composed and gave the impression of wondering why the police should want to talk to him. But he did not have long to wait.
‘How often did you have sexual intercourse with Mrs Georgina Cheney, Mr Cavanaugh?’ Hardcastle posed the question in an almost conversational tone.
‘What?’ Cavanaugh’s cigarette case fell from his hand and dropped noisily to the table as the young lieutenant’s face assumed an expression of shock.
‘The question was quite clear,’ said Hardcastle.
‘But why are you interested in that, Inspector? There was nothing underhand about it. The lady was a willing partner.’
‘She’s been murdered,’ said Hardcastle bluntly.
‘Yes, I know. Guy Slater told me, but surely you can’t think I had anything to do with that.’
‘How often did you attend Mrs Cheney’s little parties, Mr Cavanaugh?’
‘Three or four times, I suppose.’
‘And how often did you finish up in her bed?’
Cavanaugh blushed scarlet. ‘Only the once.’ He almost whispered the reply, and glanced nervously at Major Corrigan. ‘But I’m not married.’
‘No, but Mrs Cheney was,’ said Marriott. ‘To a naval commander, and I doubt he’d’ve been too happy about it.’
‘Oh my God! But she told me she was a war widow.’
‘More like a grass widow,’ commented Hardcastle drily. ‘When was the last time you were at her house?’
‘I must’ve been two or three weeks ago.’
‘And where were you on the night of Tuesday the eleventh of June?’ Hardcastle knew what Major Lawford had told him, but as usual he was checking the facts.
Cavanaugh took out a pocket diary and flicked through the pages. ‘I was on patrol from nine o’clock that evening, returning here at two in the morning.’
‘Did Major Lawford ever attend these parties, Mr Cavanaugh?’ asked Marriott suddenly, a question that surprised even Major Corrigan.
‘Good Lord, no! And I don’t think he’d’ve approved if he knew that any of us did, either.’
‘Well, he does now,’ said Hardcastle, a comment that did little to ease Cavanaugh’s discomfort. ‘Did
you ever know a woman named Blanche Hardy or Hazel Lacey?’
‘No.’ There was no hesitation in Cavanaugh’s reply.
‘Was Mrs Cheney a moneyed woman, would you say, Mr Cavanaugh?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘She seemed to be. There was always plenty to eat and drink at her parties.’
‘One last thing. Do you know the names of any other men who were at these parties of Mrs Cheney’s?’
‘No, I don’t. Leo Etherington and Guy Slater went there a few times, but I don’t know of anyone else, Inspector.’
‘Very well, Mr Cavanaugh, you may go,’ said Hardcastle.
Cavanaugh put on his cap, saluted Major Corrigan, and left the room, mystified as to why the police had wished to talk to him.
‘Have your interviews helped you at all, Inspector?’ asked Corrigan.
‘Not in the slightest, Major, but one has to try. Thank you for your assistance, and perhaps you’d thank Major Lawford for me. I don’t wish to disturb him again.’
Hardcastle was in a foul mood when he and Marriott returned to the police station at Cannon Row.
‘That was a complete waste of time, Marriott.’
‘But at least we learned that Etherington was having an affair with Hannah Clarke, sir,’ said Marriott.
‘An affair?’ scoffed Hardcastle. ‘He’d screwed her once and then took her to see Charlie Chaplin in the hope of getting his leg over once more. And went back to Sutton’s Farm disappointed.’
‘If he did, sir.’
‘What d’you mean by that?’ Hardcastle sat down at his desk and took out his pipe.
‘We’ve only Etherington’s word for it that he didn’t enter Mrs Cheney’s house that night, sir. For all we know, he might’ve murdered her. He was very reluctant to tell us what he’d been up to until you threatened to nick him.’
‘You’re right, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, in a rare admission that his sergeant may have a point. ‘We’ll go and talk to young Miss Clarke again.’
‘Now, sir?’
‘Yes, now.’ Hardcastle picked up his hat and umbrella and made for the door. ‘Come, Marriott.’
It was six o’clock by the time that Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at the Whilber Street address. When Hannah Clarke answered the door it was apparent that she had abandoned all pretence of dressing like a housekeeper. She was wearing a peach silk one-piece frock, cut rather low at the neckline, and with a hem a good twelve inches from the floor. Her blonde hair was swept up in a style that was fast becoming unfashionable.
‘Hello, Inspector.’ Hannah beamed at the two policemen. ‘Please come in.’
‘That’s a nice frock,’ observed Hardcastle, as the three of them sat down in the drawing room.
‘It was one of Mrs Cheney’s,’ said Hannah. ‘The commander said that I could help myself to anything of the mistress’s that I wanted, and to get rid of the rest.’
‘On the night of Mrs Cheney’s murder, Hannah,’ Hardcastle began, ‘you went to the Bioscope to see Charlie Chaplin.’
‘That’s right,’ said Hannah, ‘but I told you that before.’
‘And then you said that you went for a walk along Vauxhall Bridge Road looking at the shops with a footman from one of the houses down the road.’
‘Yes,’ said Hannah, but now she appeared a little less confident of herself than when the two detectives had arrived.
‘Are you sure about that, Hannah?’ asked Marriott.
‘Of course.’ But the girl avoided Marriott’s questioning gaze.
‘What was the footman’s name?’
‘Oh, er, I can’t remember.’
‘You can’t remember because there was no such footman, was there, Hannah?’ said Hardcastle.
Hannah Clarke suddenly burst into tears and the DDI suspected that they were forced in order to avoid answering further questions. But it had no effect on him and he waited until she had recovered herself.
‘Well?’ demanded Hardcastle.
‘Leo took me to see the movie.’
‘Leo who?’
‘Leo Etherington. He’s one of the flyers from Hornchurch.’
‘Tell me exactly what happened, Hannah.’
‘I didn’t know he was coming,’ said the girl, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘He just knocked at the door and asked me if I’d like to go out. I asked the mistress if it would be all right and she said yes, and she gave me half a crown in case I had to get a cab back.’
‘Yes, go on.’
‘But I didn’t need it because Leo took me to the Bioscope in a taxi, and he paid for my ticket at the cinema.’
‘What happened afterwards?’
‘He took me for supper at a little restaurant in Victoria Street, and then he took me back to Whilber Street in a taxi.’
‘And then what happened? And you’d better tell me the truth, girl. You lied to me on both the occasions that I previously spoke to you and that could get you into serious trouble. It’s called obstructing the police in the execution of their duty, and you could go to prison.’
‘I didn’t mean to, sir.’ Hannah started to cry again and this time it was genuine, the tears falling on to the silk dress and making little stains, but she seemed not to notice.
‘Mr Etherington brought you back here in a taxi. What time was that?’ asked Marriott.
‘It must’ve been about ten o’clock, perhaps a little later.’
‘And you took him straight up to your bedroom,’ said Hardcastle, as though he knew that that is what had happened. ‘What time did he leave the house?’
‘About two o’clock, sir,’ said Hannah in little more than a whisper. She looked down, staring at an emerald ring that adorned the little finger of her left hand, presumably another of the late Georgina Cheney’s possessions.
‘And what did Mrs Cheney have to say about that?’
‘She never worried about me entertaining a young gentleman, sir. She did it often enough herself,’ Hannah added defiantly.
‘And was she entertaining that particular evening?’
‘Yes,’ said Hannah. ‘I heard her talking to someone in the drawing room, but the door was closed and I don’t know who it was. But like I said she often entertained.’
Marriott glanced at Hardcastle and could see that he was becoming increasingly annoyed at the way in which Hannah had misled him. He knew that if the DDI were to lose his temper any chance of getting more information out of the young girl would be lost, and he decided to intervene.
‘Where is your bedroom in relation to Mrs Cheney’s, Hannah?’ asked Marriott.
‘It’s on the top floor.’
‘And Mrs Cheney’s room was on the floor below?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did you hear anything coming from your mistress’s room?’
‘No, but I wouldn’t have. The mistress’s bedroom was at the front and mine used to be at the back.’
‘What d’you mean, your bedroom used to be at the back?’
‘Well, I’ve moved into the mistress’s old bedroom now. It was the commander what suggested it. He said I’d be more comfortable there.’
‘And you heard nothing at all? You didn’t hear raised voices and you didn’t hear Mrs Cheney’s companion leaving?’
‘No, sir, I never heard nothing.’
‘How many nights did Commander Cheney stay here when he came home, Hannah?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Just the one, sir.’
‘And of course he slept with you that night.’ Hardcastle made the statement as though he knew this to be the case. Nevertheless, he was surprised at Hannah’s answer.
‘Oh, he told you that, did he?’ Hannah assumed an air of embarrassment. ‘He said it was supposed to be a secret and I wasn’t to tell anyone.’
But Hannah was not to know that Hardcastle had not seen Commander Cheney again after their first meeting.
‘That girl’s nothing but a common tart,’ said Hardcastle angrily, when he and Marriott returned to their poli
ce station.
‘I think she’s doing all right in her present billet, though, sir,’ observed Marriott. ‘She seems to have fallen on her feet.’
‘Only when she’s not on her back with her legs in the air,’ commented Hardcastle drily.
‘What do we do next, sir?’
‘Hannah Clarke and Sub-Lieutenant Etherington are both lying to us, Marriott. For a start I’ll arrest Etherington on suspicion of murder.’
‘D’you intend to go to Sutton’s Farm now, sir?’ Marriott was not surprised at the DDI’s announcement, and glanced surreptitiously at the clock above Hardcastle’s head. He could see another evening slipping away.
‘I’m not going at all, Marriott. Some time tomorrow we’ll see Colonel Frobisher and arrange for Etherington to be nicked by that there Major Corrigan and brought up to London. That’ll give those military policemen a chance to show us what they’re made of. Anyway, we’ve got a funeral to attend in the morning. Did Miss Clarke tell you where it’s to be held, by the way?’
‘Brompton Cemetery, sir. It’s in Old Brompton Road.’ Marriott forbore from saying that the DDI had been present when Hannah Clarke had told them the details.
‘Yes, it would be, I suppose. What time?’
‘Ten o’clock, sir.’
‘Ah, yes, so it is. Don’t forget your black tie, Marriott. In the meantime, get yourself off home, and give my regards to Mrs Marriott.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said a relieved Marriott. ‘And mine to Mrs H.’
However, although not immediately apparent, a further task assigned to Hardcastle by Detective Chief Inspector Frederick Wensley would delay the arrest of Flight Sub-Lieutenant Leo Etherington.
Charles Marriott put a padlock and chain on his bicycle and left it outside his police quarter in Regency Street. Opening his front door he walked through to the kitchen.
‘You’re home early, love.’ Lorna Marriott had become accustomed to her husband working late hours, particularly when he was involved in a murder investigation. And seven o’clock was early by CID standards.
‘Make the most of it, pet,’ said Marriott. ‘We’ve been given two more murders to deal with along with the Cheney one.’
‘I think you’re being taken advantage of, love,’ said Lorna, as she darted back and forth across the kitchen preparing supper. ‘Your Mr Hardcastle can’t have a home life of his own.’