by Graham Ison
Hardcastle stood in the centre of the room and gazed around. It was typical of seaside accommodation; similar, in fact, to one in which he had stayed when forced to take a week’s holiday in Southend-on-Sea before the war. A single iron bedstead, a wardrobe, a chair, a dressing table, and a washstand on which were a bowl and a ewer comprised the furnishings. Brown curtains, brown paintwork and cheap wallpaper depicting roses, all combined to give the room a depressing air.
One of the two suitcases that Hannah Clarke had taken with her when she had left Whilber Street rested on a folding luggage rack. The other stood beside it, along with her valise.
‘She seems to have brought a lot of baggage with her for a trip to the seaside, sir,’ commented Marriott.
‘Unless she planned to go further afield, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Take a look in the wardrobe.’
Marriott pulled open the door of the wardrobe. ‘There are only the black mourning weeds she arrived in, sir,’ he said, ‘and a pair of shoes.’
‘Try the suitcase, Burgess. Start with the one on the rack,’ said Hardcastle.
Burgess opened it up. ‘More clothing, sir.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Not quite, sir.’ From the pouch at the back of the suitcase, Burgess extracted a cheque book and handed it to the DDI. ‘That looks interesting, sir,’ he said, and switched his attention to the valise.
‘Interesting indeed.’ Hardcastle flicked open the cover. ‘I suppose it belongs to our victim,’ he said, ‘unless she pinched it. It was issued by Williams Deacon’s Bank in Victoria Street, London, Marriott. We’ll have to make a few enquiries there when we get back.’
‘We could ask Catto to do it, sir,’ suggested Marriott.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Catto has his limitations, and making enquiries at a bank is one of them.’
‘There’s a ration book in the name of Queenie Rogers in the valise, sir,’ said Burgess. ‘And an address book.’
‘There should be an address on that ration book.’
‘There is, sir. Disraeli Road, Wandsworth, London S.W.’
‘I can see you’re coming on a treat, Burgess. We’ll make a detective of you yet,’ said Hardcastle, taking hold of the slim leather-bound address book and flicking through it. ‘There are quite a few names in here, Marriott. We’ll need to go through it and trace these people.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott, groaning inwardly. He knew who would be doing the work.
‘And we’ll pay a visit to this Disraeli Road address. I think we might find something interesting there.’
The search continued, but there was little more to interest the detectives. Apart from the documents that Burgess had discovered in the suitcase and the valise, the luggage contained only clothing. Hardcastle noted that the frocks were of good value, but decided that they had probably belonged to the late Georgina Cheney. Or even Blanche Hardy.
‘It strikes me that Hannah Clarke was planning on staying here for a while, but I somehow doubt that she intended to live in this hotel permanently,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Mrs Croft said she’d paid for a week’s stay, sir,’ said Burgess.
‘Quite so, but I wonder where she was going from here.’
‘Perhaps to one of the people listed in the address book, sir,’ suggested Marriott. ‘Or maybe back to the Disraeli Road address that Ted Burgess found on the ration book. Perhaps she really was here just for a holiday.’
‘Maybe, but Catto said she told the cab driver that she was visiting her folks in Sussex,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Well, I think that’s all we can do for the moment. We’ll see if our rooms are ready and then we’ll take Burgess here out for a pint. I dare say you know of a decent pub hereabouts, Burgess, being as you’re a local, so to speak.’
‘Yes, sir. There’s one not far from here.’ Burgess continued to be surprised by the attitude of the London DDI. He had never once been taken out for a drink by an inspector. In fact, the senior officers of the West Sussex Constabulary were at pains to keep themselves aloof from the lower ranks.
The public house that Burgess had recommended was a decent enough hostelry, and Hardcastle amazed Marriott by paying for the first round.
Hardcastle took out his watch, glanced at it, briefly wound it and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket.
‘See you at the police station at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, Burgess.’
‘Tomorrow’s Sunday, sir,’ said Burgess.
‘I know,’ said Hardcastle.
Hardcastle and Marriott had been at work for half an hour when Sergeant Burgess arrived.
‘I hope I’m not late, sir.’
‘No, you’re right on time, Burgess,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Sergeant Marriott and me have been going over what we know so far, and what needs to be done tomorrow.’
‘Have you got a job for me, sir?’ asked Burgess keenly.
‘Yes, I have, Burgess. I want you to get yourself back up to the Sea View Hotel and take a written statement from Mrs Croft. Make sure you include what Kitty Gordon said to her when she arrived. And that means everything, no matter how unimportant it might seem. What she said exactly about how long she’d be staying. What she was doing there; a holiday or what. What she said about going out and did she say where she was going? Did she mention who she was meeting or did she talk about going to a restaurant for supper, if so which one? Were there any callers asking for her, before she arrived, while she was there, or after she’d left? Have you got all that?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Burgess had been rapidly taking notes while the DDI was talking. In the last twenty-four hours he had learned more about the investigation of murder than in the whole of his service.
‘Where’s the bathing dress the girl was wearing?’ asked Hardcastle, suddenly changing the subject.
‘Er, I don’t know, sir.’
‘Well, find it, Burgess. Tomorrow morning I want to visit every shop that sells such garments. We’ll take it with us and show it around. I’ll want to know who, if anyone, purchased it. Whether it was Miss Gordon or whether it was a man. If it was a man we’ll get any identifying details and take a description. And we’ll make a note of the time the purchase was made.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Burgess was staggered at the pace and the thoroughness of the London DDI’s instructions, and that he had issued them without any reference to notes.
‘Make me a list of those shops nearest to the Sea View Hotel and the pier; I noticed that they’re close to each other. Once that’s done get copies made of the photograph in the girl’s identity card so that we can show it around. I’m particularly interested in anyone who saw Miss Gordon in the company of a man.’
‘We don’t have any facilities for photography here at Worthing police station, sir.’
Hardcastle stared at the young Sussex sergeant. ‘You don’t have the facilities? Good grief! In that case get hold of a reliable local photographer and tell him to do it. And I don’t want to hear that he said they’d be ready next week. I want them within the hour. In fact there ought to be someone about on a Sunday, seeing as how the beach will probably be crowded with people who want their pictures taken.’
‘Who’s going to pay for them, sir?’
‘The West Sussex Constabulary, of course.’ Hardcastle saw the look of concern on Burgess’s face. ‘Don’t worry, Burgess, I’ll be the one telling Mr Potts to put his hand in his pocket.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Burgess was extremely glad that he was not the one who would have to approach the superintendent for reimbursement.
‘Very well,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We’ll meet here again at two o’clock and you can tell me how you’ve got on.’
‘Shouldn’t I give him a hand, sir?’ asked Marriott, once Burgess had departed.
‘It’ll be quicker for him to do it, Marriott.’ Hardcastle took out his pipe and began slowly to fill it with tobacco. ‘He’s a local lad and we wouldn’t know where to start. Anyway, it’s Worthing’s murder.�
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Sergeant Burgess was looking extremely pleased with himself when he returned to Worthing police station at two o’clock.
‘Have you got some answers, Burgess?’ demanded Hardcastle.
‘I’ve got the statement from Mrs Croft, sir. She said that Miss Gordon went out last evening at about six o’clock saying that she was going for a walk along the front. She also said that she was meeting someone for supper and that she’d be back at about half past ten. Miss Gordon didn’t mention to Mrs Croft who she’d be meeting or where she’d be going for supper. And when she left the hotel that’s the last Mrs Croft saw of her.’
Marriott sifted through the papers that he and Hardcastle had brought from London. ‘That’s exactly what she told Catto, sir,’ he said, proffering the statement that Catto had made about his enquiries in Worthing.
Hardcastle waved it aside. ‘I know that, Marriott.’
‘Miss Gordon told Mrs Croft that she’d be staying a week and paid in advance, sir.’ Burgess continued to read from the statement he had taken. ‘She also volunteered the information that she was taking a short holiday.’
‘Well, that don’t add much to the pile.’
‘But that is what she said, sir,’ said Burgess, fearing that he was being criticized by the DDI.
‘I’ve no doubt, Burgess. Much as we’d like to, we can’t get witnesses to tell us more than they know. Now, what about the photos?’
‘I contacted a photographer I know, sir. He’s a reliable chap and has done jobs for us before.’ Burgess opened his briefcase and extracted a handful of copies of the photograph in the identity card that bore the name of Queenie Rogers.
‘Good. They’ll be useful for tomorrow’s enquiries.’ Hardcastle lit his pipe. ‘Don’t you smoke, Burgess?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir, but never in the presence of a senior officer.’
‘Well, you’re working with London coppers now, so light up.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Burgess took out a pipe and filled it.
‘I’m glad to see you don’t smoke cigarettes, Burgess. Marriott here does, and I keep telling him they’ll do him no good.’
‘They’re more convenient than all the paraphernalia that goes with pipe-smoking, Ted,’ said Marriott, ‘but I hope you don’t wear a wristwatch. That’d really upset the guv’nor.’
Burgess stared at Marriott open-mouthed, but remained silent. He could never visualize this sort of casual conversation taking place between an inspector and a sergeant in his force.
‘Quite right, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t knocked the thing off on something.’
‘I haven’t done so yet, sir.’ But even Marriott was surprised at how Hardcastle’s usually acerbic mood had softened since their arrival in Worthing. He could only assume that it had something to do with the sea air.
‘I think that’ll do for today,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Enjoy your weekend, Burgess.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Burgess was starting to learn a lot about London detectives in general and Hardcastle in particular. Half a Sunday would not be regarded as a weekend in the West Sussex Constabulary. In addition, he would have to see the young lady he was courting and explain why he had failed to meet her the previous evening.
On Monday morning Hardcastle and Marriott enjoyed an excellent breakfast at the Sea View Hotel. Hardcastle suspected that it was far superior to that served to the other guests and attributed it to the fact that he and Marriott were investigating the murder. Mrs Croft had also supplied each of the two detectives with a copy of the Argus, the local newspaper. Banner headlines proclaimed: LONDON WOMAN MURDERED ON WORTHING PIER – YARD CALLED IN.
‘I wonder who leaked that to the press,’ said Hardcastle, but was resigned to the fact that it would have been difficult to keep it secret.
At Hardcastle’s behest, Mrs Croft had called a cab, and he and Marriott arrived at Ann Street police station only to walk into a storm.
The sergeant on duty looked up as the two London detectives entered. Behind him stood Inspector Weaver. Both appeared somewhat apprehensive.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Weaver. ‘Superintendent Potts would like to see you, sir. I think he’s somewhat upset.’
‘Is that so?’ said Hardcastle. ‘In that case, you may tell him that I’m in your office should he wish to talk to me.’
‘But, sir …’ Weaver was not looking forward to acting as a go-between, especially where these two particular officers were concerned.
‘Is Sergeant Burgess here, Mr Weaver?’ Hardcastle dismissed the inspector’s concerns; he was in no mood for petty squabbles.
‘He looked in earlier, sir, but he said that you’d given him several enquiries to make.’
‘Quite right. I did.’ Hardcastle, followed by Marriott, made his way to the office that he had commandeered and slammed the door.
But only minutes later that door was flung open and Superintendent Potts stood on the threshold.
‘I left a message for you to see me, Mr Hardcastle.’
‘I believe you did, Mr Potts. Well, I’m here,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Was it something important in connection with the murder I’m investigating for you?’
‘Perhaps your sergeant could leave us for a moment,’ said Potts.
‘My sergeant is assisting me in this investigation, Mr Potts, and as you’ve presumably come here to impart some new information about this murder, he stays.’
‘I haven’t,’ snapped Potts. ‘I wish you to know that I’m extremely annoyed that you have taken one of my officers for your enquiries without so much as a by-your-leave.’ The superintendent was red in the face and appeared to be having great difficulty in controlling his temper.
Hardcastle took out his pipe and slowly filled it. ‘My Commissioner specifically asked for a CID officer to be assigned to this enquiry, Mr Potts,’ he said mildly. ‘But when I arrived on Saturday afternoon I found that that request had been completely ignored. What’s more I subsequently learned that you don’t have any CID officers. As there was no time to waste, I therefore directed Inspector Weaver to select a suitable uniformed officer. As a result, Sergeant Burgess has been assigned to me and I find that he’s most satisfactory.’
‘Now look here …’ Potts had never been spoken to like this before, even by the Chief.
‘But as there seems to be a problem,’ continued Hardcastle in level tones, ‘I shall now go to Horsham and speak to the Chief Constable about the lack of cooperation I’m receiving from the superintendent of the Worthing Division.’ Before Potts could reply to this blatant threat, Hardcastle turned to Marriott. ‘See if you can find a cab to take us to Horsham, Marriott. I understand that it’s about twenty miles from here, but as the Chief Constable will be paying for it, I don’t mind how much it will cost.’
‘I don’t think there’s any need to disturb the Chief, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Potts, hurriedly backing down. ‘You can keep Sergeant Burgess. Not that he’s much good,’ he added churlishly. ‘It’s just that you’ve caused me a great deal of inconvenience in having to rearrange my duty rosters.’ And with that final complaint, the superintendent swept from the office. As a final show of pique, he slammed the door.
‘Now, perhaps, we can get on, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle.
FOURTEEN
Sergeant Edward Burgess returned to the police station at ten o’clock.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘You’re up and about bright and early, Burgess,’ said Hardcastle. ‘By the way, Superintendent Potts has agreed that you’re assigned to me for as long as I need you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Well, what have you been doing?’
‘I’ve drawn up a list of three likely shops nearest to the Sea View Hotel that sell bathing dresses, sir. And I’ve identified a number of restaurants that might’ve been visited by the dead woman. I haven’t made any enquiries because you said you’d wish to make them yourself.’
‘Quite right. C
ome, Marriott, we’ll make a start.’
‘D’you want me to come with you, sir?’ asked Burgess.
‘Of course.’ Hardcastle picked up his bowler hat, paused and then took hold of his umbrella.
‘It’s not raining, sir,’ observed Burgess hesitantly.
‘But it might,’ said Hardcastle. ‘In fact, Burgess, one does not even have to leave this police station to run into a squall,’ he added. It was a comment that, unsurprisingly, meant nothing to Burgess. ‘Be so good as to call a taxi. You can use the police station telephone.’
‘But the superintendent—’
‘Never mind what the superintendent says about it, Burgess. I’m in charge of this enquiry.’
‘This is the last shop on your list of three, Burgess,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Let’s hope we fare better with this one than we did with the last two.’
‘So do I, sir.’ Burgess feared that Hardcastle would think that he had not been thorough.
The three officers had stopped outside an establishment that dealt solely in ladies’ fashions, and had the appearance of being at the upper end of the market. The garments in the window display were tastefully arranged and exhibited what, even to Hardcastle’s unpractised eye, were expensive gowns.
A young woman looked askance at the three men as they entered the shop, assuming briefly that they had come to the wrong place.
‘May I help you, sir?’ she asked, directing her request to Hardcastle. ‘I’m Miss Kersh. Rebecca Kersh, the manageress.’
‘I hope so, Miss Kersh,’ said Hardcastle, raising his hat. ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of Scotland Yard and I’m enquiring into the murder of the woman on Thursday evening,’ he added.
‘I read about that in the Argus, Inspector. One doesn’t expect such a terrible thing to happen here in Worthing.’