by Graham Ison
‘Oh, but he does.’ Marriott took off his jacket and placed it on the back of a kitchen chair. ‘He asked me a funny question the other day. He asked me if I’d started saving for Doreen’s wedding.’
Lorna laughed. ‘Did you tell him how old she was?’
‘I did, but he said I couldn’t start too soon. Apparently his youngest, Maud, is getting wed next year, whether the war’s over or not. Between you and me, I think he’s worried about how he’s going to pay for it.’
‘It doesn’t have to be that expensive, surely?’ Lorna turned from the cooker, a wooden spoon in her hand.
‘It seems that young Maud’s going to marry an army officer, and the army expects something special.’
‘Well, I hope he doesn’t get killed before the wedding,’ said Lorna matter-of-factly. Her brother, Frank Dobson, was a company sergeant-major serving with the Middlesex Regiment in France, and she worried constantly that one day she would hear that he had been killed in action. ‘Anyway, so long as Doreen doesn’t marry a policeman she’ll be all right.’
‘Talking of which, pet, are the children asleep?’ Marriott knew that the two children, James and Doreen, nine and seven respectively, would both be in bed.
‘Of course. They see so little of you that one day they’ll start asking if they’ve really got a father.’
Hardcastle let himself into his house in Kennington. He hung up his hat and umbrella and took out his hunter, comparing the time it showed with the hall clock. Opening the glass front of the clock, he moved the minute hand slightly so that it showed the correct time.
‘Is that you, Ernie?’ Alice called from the kitchen.
‘Yes, it’s me, love.’
‘You’re home nice and early. Supper’s ready, but you’ve time for a whisky.’
Hardcastle walked through to the kitchen and kissed his wife on the cheek.
‘Now don’t go getting under my feet, Ernie.’ Alice flicked a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. ‘Just go and sit down.’
‘“Ace” Wensley’s given me two more murders to deal with, love,’ said Hardcastle, as he retreated to the door. ‘Glass of sherry?’
‘Yes please.’ Alice Hardcastle turned to look at her husband. ‘I sometimes think they take rotten advantage of you, Ernie,’ she said, echoing what Lorna Marriott had said to her husband.
TEN
‘Why does it always rain at funerals, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle, as a cab set them down in Old Brompton Road.
‘I must say it seems to be the case, sir.’ Marriott could think of no other way to reply to one of the DDI’s unanswerable questions.
‘Ah, it seems we’re just in time.’ Hardcastle raised his umbrella slightly so that he could see the cortège as it entered the cemetery gates. A glass-sided hearse, the coachman of which had rain running off his top hat and drenching his caped shoulders, was led by a solitary horse accompanied by six walking pall-bearers. The hearse was followed by one carriage, the sole occupant of which was a veiled Hannah Clarke. ‘Good God Almighty!’ exclaimed the DDI, as he doffed his hat. ‘If that’s a Harrods funeral, Kaiser Bill’s me uncle. That’s a planting that’s been done on the cheap. I’m sure it’s not what the commander ordered.’
‘But he didn’t, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘Young Hannah said the commander left all the arrangements to her.’
‘No, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘She told us that the commander had made arrangements with Harrods. Anyway, that’s what the carney little bitch said, but I’ve got to the point where I don’t believe a word she utters. Which begs the question why was he so uninterested in burying his wife.’
The two detectives followed the small procession at a distance, but in time to see the pall-bearers carry the coffin into the chapel. Once Hannah Clarke had followed it inside, Hardcastle and Marriott moved to the entrance and were able to observe that Commander Cheney’s housekeeper was the only mourner.
‘We’ve wasted our bloody time, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I was hoping that we’d see some stranger who we might be able to connect to Mrs Cheney’s murder.’
Furious, Hardcastle swept out of the cemetery and hailed a cab. ‘Scotland Yard, cabbie,’ he said, but he was so incensed that for once he omitted to tell Marriott of the perils of asking to go to Cannon Row.
It was nearing midday. Hardcastle was seated in his office mulling over the implications of the cheap funeral he had witnessed that morning when there was a knock at his door.
‘Yes?’
A constable entered the office. ‘PC 107 Barnes, sir.’
‘What d’you want, lad?’
‘I was patrolling my beat this morning, sir, and found myself in Whilber Street at approximately five and twenty minutes to twelve—’ Barnes began.
‘For pity’s sake, lad, I don’t have the time to listen to a description of your perambulations. Get to the bloody point. If there is one.’
‘Yes, sir. Well, sir, as I was passing the house of the late Mrs Cheney, a lady emerged from the house opposite: that’s number twenty-eight Whilber Street, sir.’ Barnes paused to refer to his pocketbook. ‘She gave her name as Mrs Winifred Curtis.’
‘Are you eventually going to tell me what this is all about, lad?’ demanded Hardcastle, fast becoming exasperated with Barnes’ continuing prevarication.
‘Sorry, sir. She said as how she thought we might be interested in the fact that a young woman, who Mrs Curtis believed to be the late Mrs Cheney’s maid, had quit the premises. She had two suitcases with her and a valise. Mrs Curtis said the young woman entered a cab and left the area.’
‘Ye gods!’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘The cunning little vixen. Did Mrs Curtis say what time this young woman left, lad?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And you didn’t think to ask, I suppose.’
‘No, sir, sorry, sir.’
‘All right, lad, get round your beat, and on your way out ask Sergeant Marriott to see me.’
‘Hannah Clarke’s done a shift,’ said Hardcastle, when Marriott appeared in the DDI’s doorway. ‘Our eagle-eyed Mrs Curtis saw her loading suitcases into a cab. Even without her binoculars.’
‘No wonder the funeral was at ten o’clock, sir. Hannah must’ve arranged this some time ago.’
‘We’ll see if we can find out more about the little trollop from Mrs Curtis. Get your hat, Marriott.’
Hardcastle stopped at the door to the detectives’ office. ‘Wood!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood rose from his place at the long table and hurriedly stubbed out his cigarette.
‘Send someone up to Somerset House a bit jildi and see what they can find out about Hannah Clarke. She’s nineteen years of age, so she told us. But I’m beginning to have doubts about everything she said. I want you to find out from Brompton Cemetery who the undertakers were that dealt with Mrs Cheney’s funeral at ten o’clock this morning. I’ll put money on it not being Harrods. It must be some company damn near next door to the cemetery because I can’t see the pall-bearers walking all the way from Harrods’ undertaking department. And while you’re at it, get the name and address of the person who made the arrangements. When you’ve done that ask Harrods if Commander Cheney ever made arrangements for the funeral and if so who cancelled ’em.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Wood grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and dashed for the door, seizing his hat as he went. When the DDI wanted something done, he wanted it done immediately.
‘Inspector, how nice to see you again,’ said Winifred Curtis, as Lottie the maid showed Hardcastle and Marriott into the drawing room.
‘I hope we’re not disturbing your lunch, Mrs Curtis, but this is rather urgent.’
‘Not at all, Inspector. I usually take luncheon at one o’clock. Please come in and sit down. I’m sure you’d like a cup of tea.’
‘Very kind, madam, but we don’t really have time for tea,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You told one of my officers that you saw a young woman leaving the
Cheney house earlier today,’ he continued, determined to get straight to the reason for his visit.
‘That’s right. I thought it was important, so I ran out when I saw a constable and told him all about it. He was such a nice young man and very good at his job, I should think. He wrote down everything I told him.’
‘I’m sure he did, Mrs Curtis.’ Hardcastle was growing tired of hearing about PC Barnes’ efficiency. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me what you told the constable.’
‘Well, of course. But I’m sure you’ve time for tea. Lottie’s just made a pot.’
‘Oh, very well,’ said Hardcastle, finally deciding that he would get little out of Mrs Curtis unless he accepted her offer of tea. ‘Thank you.’
Winifred Curtis rang the small brass tea bell and moments later, Lottie appeared bearing a large tray that held, apart from the tea things, a plate of ginger snaps.
‘You see, Inspector, I remembered to get some of your favourite biscuits. I had a feeling I’d be seeing you again.’
‘Most commendable,’ said Hardcastle, only just managing to restrain his irritation at the woman’s constant prattling. ‘Did you know if this young woman was the Cheneys’ maid?’ He decided not to confuse Mrs Curtis by mentioning that Hannah Clarke had recently been elevated to the status of housekeeper.
‘Oh, yes, it was definitely her. A flighty young woman if you ask me. Anyway, I just happened to be glancing out of my sitting room window …’ Mrs Curtis pointed at the window, presumably, Hardcastle imagined, so that he should be under no illusion as to which window she was talking about. ‘A cab drew up and the next minute out trotted the maid. Dressed all in black, she was. Very peculiar, I thought.’
‘She’d been to Mrs Cheney’s funeral, madam,’ said Marriott.
‘Oh dear. I wish I’d known. I’d’ve liked to have gone. Just to pay my respects. Not that I knew her that well, of course. Anyway, the cab driver went into the house and came out with two suitcases and a valise. But I told the constable all that.’
‘What time was this, Mrs Curtis?’ asked Marriott.
Winifred Curtis glanced at an ormolu clock on the mantel. ‘About a quarter past eleven, I think. Yes, it was. I’m certain that was the time.’
‘She must’ve come straight back here from the Brompton Cemetery and left almost immediately, sir,’ said Marriott.
‘And doubtless had her bags packed already to go,’ commented Hardcastle. ‘I suppose you didn’t happen to note the number of this cab, Mrs Curtis.’
‘Oh dear me, no.’ Winifred Curtis put a hand to her mouth. ‘I realized afterwards that that was the sort of question you policemen ask. I’m ever so sorry.’
‘No matter, Mrs Curtis,’ said Marriott. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
The deception that Hannah Clarke had perpetrated on Hardcastle had left him in a bad mood that still persisted after his return to the police station.
‘Get someone in here, Marriott.’
Seconds later Henry Catto edged nervously around Hardcastle’s office door. ‘You wanted me, sir?’
‘Are you the only one in the office, Catto?’ barked Hardcastle.
‘Yes, sir.’ As ever, Catto was showing signs of nervousness at being summoned by the DDI.
‘You’ll have to do, I suppose. Now listen carefully. A cab picked up Hannah Clarke from the Cheneys’ place at twenty-nine Whilber Street at about eleven-fifteen this morning. Find it, and find out where the driver took her. Got it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, don’t stand there, Catto. Get on with it.’
Alarmed at the enormity of the task he had been given, Catto returned to the detectives’ office with a glum expression on his face.
‘What’s the matter with you, Catto?’ asked Marriott. ‘You look as though you’ve lost half a crown and found a sixpence.’
Catto explained about the job the DDI had just given him. ‘I don’t know where to start, Sergeant,’ he complained.
Marriott laughed. ‘Come with me, Catto, and I’ll show you how the job’s done.’ He picked up his hat and strode from the room.
Followed by Catto, Marriott turned out of the police station and made for Victoria Embankment.
‘There’s a cab shelter near the Embankment Gardens,’ Marriott explained. ‘I’ve done this before, Catto, so watch and learn.’
Despite it being a hot June day, the windows of the cab shelter were all tightly closed. The stench of frying sausages and bacon, combined with a thick pall of cigarette and tobacco smoke, had generated a fug in the small hut.
Silence fell as the two detectives entered, the assembled cab drivers knowing instinctively that the police had come among them.
‘I’m investigating a case of murder.’ It was a statement that produced a brief hubbub of conversation, but which was stilled by Marriott’s upraised hand. ‘At about a quarter past eleven this morning a cab picked up a young woman from twenty-nine Whilber Street. She was dressed all in black, had blonde hair and had two suitcases and a valise with her. I need to speak to this cab driver sooner rather than later. And that means today. Tell him to call at Cannon Row police station and ask for Detective Sergeant Marriott.’
‘D’you think it’ll work, Sergeant?’ asked Catto as he and Marriott walked back to the police station.
‘It’ll work all right, Catto. I’d bet my pension on it.’
Within thirty minutes of the detectives’ visit to the cab shelter, a constable escorted a scruffily dressed man into their office. Bow-legged and stooped, he had a red face, bushy eyebrows and a walrus moustache. His right hand held a battered peaked cap.
‘This here is Joshua Figgins, Sergeant, a cab driver,’ said the PC. ‘He says as how you wanted a word with him.’
‘Did you pick up a young lady from twenty-nine Whilber Street at about eleven-fifteen this morning, Figgins?’ asked Marriott.
‘That’s me, guv’nor.’ Figgins sniffed loudly and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his ragged coat. ‘I ain’t done nuffink wrong, ’ave I?’
‘Not that I can think of at the moment,’ said Marriott, a comment that did little to reassure the cabbie. ‘Where did you take her?’
‘Victoria Station, guv’nor.’
‘Where exactly did you drop her off?’
‘Outside on the rank. An’ I never hung about because them railway rozzers—’ Figgins stopped abruptly, suddenly remembering that he was talking to a policeman.
‘Did she take her luggage with her?’
‘No, guv. There was a porter ’anging abaht, an’ she got him to grab her bags.’
‘Did she mention where she was going?’
‘When she got in the cab she said something abaht visiting her folks dahn Sussex, but she never said where in Sussex.’
‘All right, Figgins, you can go,’ said Marriott and, turning to the constable, added, ‘See this gentleman off the premises.’
‘Right, Sergeant.’
‘There you are, Catto,’ said Marriott, once Figgins and the PC had departed. ‘Now you can go and tell the DDI what a clever detective you are.’
‘Thanks very much, Sergeant,’ said Catto.
‘You needn’t tell him how I helped you out, and next time you’ll know how to do it.’ Marriott had a soft spot for Catto and could not understand why Hardcastle had such a low opinion of him. In the sergeant’s view Catto was good at his job, but suffered a loss of confidence whenever he came into contact with the DDI.
‘Well?’ Hardcastle looked up as Catto appeared.
‘The cab driver who collected Miss Clarke from Whilber Street goes by the name of Figgins, sir, and he dropped her at Victoria Station. During the journey she told him she was visiting her folks in Sussex, but didn’t say exactly where.’
‘Did this here Figgins say which train she got on, Catto?’
‘No, sir. He set her down at the station entrance, and a porter took her bags.’
‘Then you’d better get down to Victoria and ask aro
und. See if you can find this porter. He might know which train she caught.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Catto, delighted that the DDI had apparently found no fault with the manner in which he had conducted the enquiry, turned to leave.
‘You’re coming on a treat, Catto,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We might make a detective out of you yet.’
‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir,’ said Catto, realizing that that was as near as the DDI would ever get to paying him a compliment.
‘What d’you propose to do next, sir?’ Marriott tapped lightly on Hardcastle’s open door and stepped into his office.
‘And I suppose you helped Catto with that cab enquiry, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, a man not easily deceived. And certainly not by his detectives.
‘That’s what a first-class sergeant’s for, sir, to teach these young lads the trade,’ said Marriott, risking a grin.
Hardcastle grunted. ‘We’ll have to wait and see what Catto turns up, Marriott. In the meantime, we’d better make a start on these other murders that Mr Wensley’s given us. First of all, we’ll pay a visit to the Lacey address, and see what we can find out about the murder of Mrs Hazel Lacey. Where is it?’
‘Ovington Square, sir.’
‘Ah yes, so it is,’ said Hardcastle, who was thoroughly conversant with the docket that been handed over by DDI Sullivan at Vine Street.
It was almost four o’clock that same afternoon when a trim young housemaid answered the door of the four-storey dwelling in Ovington Square.
‘Yes, sir?’ The maid looked nervously at the two detectives.
‘We’re police officers, lass,’ said Hardcastle.
‘There’s no one here, sir. Just me.’ The maid paused, a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh dear! It’s not about the colonel, sir, is it?’
‘He’s quite safe, as far as I know,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but it’s you I wanted to talk to. We’re investigating the murder of Mrs Hazel Lacey.’
‘I don’t know nothing about that, sir. And I told them other policemen that came here.’