Hardcastle's Quartet

by Graham Ison

  ‘This is it,’ said Hardcastle, as the cab drew to a standstill outside an immaculate double-fronted house in Manwood Road, Brockley, in south-east London. It was two storeys high, and the railings and gate had been freshly painted in green.

  When Hardcastle and Marriott alighted from the cab, DS Wood and DCs Carter and Keeler appeared as if from nowhere.

  ‘He’s there, sir,’ said Wood.

  ‘I should hope so,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Tell that cab to wait and you’re to join me when I send for you.’

  A housemaid answered the door and gazed quizzically at the two men on the step.

  ‘We’re police officers, miss. Is your master at home?’

  ‘I’ll enquire, sir,’ said the maid, bobbing briefly.

  ‘Don’t bother, lass. I’ll enquire myself,’ said Hardcastle, and he and Marriott brushed past the maid and entered the drawing room.

  ‘Inspector Hardcastle. What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Rollo Henson, I am arresting you on a charge of murdering Georgina Cheney on or about the eleventh of June 1918. Anything you say will be put in evidence.’

  ‘The hell you are, Detective.’ The woman who rose from an armchair was about thirty years of age and spoke with a strong American accent. To Hardcastle’s surprise, the bottom of her red silk day dress was at least fourteen inches from the ground, revealing a trimly turned ankle and glacé kid shoes. But the greatest surprise of all was that her hair was cut quite short and coiffed into what Hardcastle’s eldest daughter would have told him was a ‘bob’.

  ‘Are you Mrs Henson?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Lydia Henson. What’s this about my husband murdering someone? It’s preposterous.’

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of Scotland Yard, madam, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott. I can assure you that I have adequate evidence to support the charge.’

  ‘You know I’m a barrister, Inspector,’ said Henson, ‘and I seem to recall telling you that on the night of that terrible incident I was at a bar mess dinner.’

  ‘So you said.’ Hardcastle smiled. ‘But I’ve no doubt that will be disproved when I question the other lawyers who were there.’ He turned to Marriott. ‘Get the others in.’

  Marriott returned to the front door and ordered Wood, Carter and Keeler to join him and the DDI.

  ‘Who are these people?’ demanded Mrs Henson, when the three officers entered the drawing room.

  ‘They’re police officers, madam,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and they are about to search these premises.’

  ‘Do you have a warrant, Inspector?’ enquired Henson mildly.

  ‘As a lawyer, Henson, you’ll know perfectly well that I don’t require one,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I am empowered by common law to search the premises of someone I’ve just arrested.’

  ‘This is outrageous,’ protested Lydia Henson. ‘My husband is a distinguished barrister. How can you possibly imagine that he’s committed a murder?’

  Ignoring Lydia Henson’s outburst, Hardcastle turned to Wood. ‘Take Carter and Keeler with you, Wood, and search this house thoroughly. I want you to seize all the papers you can find, especially anything relating to a bank account.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Wood. ‘Right, Carter, you start on the top floor. Keeler, come with me.’

  ‘Are you just going to stand there, Rollo, and let these people violate my house?’ Lydia Henson’s accent became even stronger.

  ‘Just sit down and keep quiet, Lydia,’ said Henson irritably. ‘This whole ridiculous business will be sorted out very soon.’ He glanced at Hardcastle. ‘You should know that I shall lodge a strong complaint with the Commissioner of Police about your high-handed and completely unwarranted behaviour, Inspector.’

  ‘That is your right, Henson,’ said Hardcastle mildly.

  Henson and his wife resumed their seats, but did not invite either of the CID officers to sit down. For the next thirty minutes, the little group maintained an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘We’ve finished, sir,’ said Wood, returning to the drawing room. ‘We’ve seized a quantity of bank papers and other correspondence. Carter has taken possession of them.’

  ‘All right, Wood, escort Mr Henson here out to the cab.’

  Henson smiled at his wife. ‘I’ll see you later this evening, honey.’ But that was to prove an overconfident promise.

  Leaving Wood and his colleagues to make their own way, Hardcastle and Marriott accompanied Henson in the cab on the way back to Cannon Row police station. Henson remained silent during the journey, only too well aware that anything he said would be recorded by Hardcastle.

  It was not until he was in the charge room that Henson spoke. ‘If you’re going to question me, Inspector, I demand to have a solicitor or some other independent person present during the interview.’

  ‘I have nothing to ask you, Henson, or should I call you Chester?’ said Hardcastle mildly, a comment that appeared to disconcert Henson. ‘Unless you wish to make a confession.’

  But Henson remained silent.

  ‘Put the charge, Sergeant,’ said Hardcastle, addressing the station officer.

  ‘Rollo Henson, you are charged with the wilful murder of Georgina Cheney on or about the eleventh of June 1918 against the peace. You are not obliged to say anything in answer to the charge, but anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.’

  Henson said nothing, and having been deprived of his personal possessions, his braces and bootlaces, was placed in a cell.

  ‘And now, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, once he and Marriott were back in the DDI’s office, ‘I want you to go through all the papers that Wood seized from Henson’s house and see if we’ve got anything useful.’

  Despite the protests of the prostitutes who thought they had a right to appear first at Bow Street police court, Hardcastle escorted his prisoner into the dock of Number One Court.

  ‘Rollo Henson, charge of murder, Your Worship,’ cried the gaoler. The hacks in the press box immediately started scribbling. Although murder cases appeared at Bow Street from time to time, they were nevertheless rare.

  ‘You have an application, Mr Hardcastle?’ asked the Chief Metropolitan Magistrate, as A Division’s DDI stepped into the witness box.

  ‘I respectfully request a remand in custody, Your Worship.’

  ‘Remanded until Saturday the sixth of July when I shall take a plea,’ said the magistrate, as he made a note in the ledger.

  Since returning from court, Charles Marriott had spent all morning examining the papers seized from Henson’s house.

  ‘I think it’s time for a pint, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, appearing in the doorway of the detectives’ office.

  ‘I’ve just found a couple of interesting things, sir,’ said Marriott as he stood up. ‘First of all there’s a letter addressed to Chester Smith and signed Queenie. It had been through the post and was delivered to Disraeli Road, Putney.’

  ‘What does it say, Marriott?’

  ‘Nothing of value, sir. It merely said that everything was all right. I suppose that was in answer to a query raised by Henson.’

  ‘Fat lot of good that is,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But if we’re going to prove that Rollo Henson and this here Chester Smith are the same person, we’ll get Inspector Collins to examine the Disraeli Road address for fingerprints and then compare them with Henson’s prints. See to it, Marriott. What else did you find?’

  ‘Henson’s cheque book, sir.’

  ‘Another one?’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘But we found his cheque book among Hannah Clarke’s possessions at Worthing.’

  ‘I suspect she stole it, sir, intent on forging one of the cheques.’

  Hardcastle laughed. ‘Oh dear, Marriott. Ain’t it wonderful when villains fall out?’

  ‘There’s a stub in this one, sir,’ said Marriott, flourishing the cheque book taken from Manwood Road, ‘that shows he issued a cheque in favour of Warne’s Hotel on Friday the twenty-
first of June. I’ve made some enquiries and there is a Warne’s Hotel in Worthing.’

  ‘That didn’t show up on the accounts we examined at the bank,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘It probably hadn’t been cleared by then, sir,’ said Marriott.

  ‘Really?’ said Hardcastle, who was not too conversant with banking procedure. ‘That was the day that Hannah Clarke’s body was discovered on the beach.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘In that case we’ll definitely have a pint, Marriott, and this afternoon we’ll go to Worthing. Has that photographer who took Henson’s picture when he was nicked come up with the prints yet?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Delivered this morning while we were at court.’

  ‘Bring some copies with you, Marriott.’

  Determined to waste as little time as possible, Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at Ann Street police station in Worthing at three o’clock that afternoon.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’ The station sergeant hurried across and lifted the flap in the counter to admit the London detectives.

  ‘Is the superintendent in his office, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Shall I show you up?’

  ‘I know where it is,’ growled Hardcastle, and mounted the stairs.

  ‘Ah, you’ve returned at last, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Superintendent Ronald Potts sarcastically.

  ‘I require the services of Sergeant Burgess again, Mr Potts,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘I’m afraid that Sergeant Burgess is engaged on other duties,’ said Potts dismissively, as though that were an end to the matter.

  ‘Nevertheless it’s vital that I have him to assist me.’

  ‘Is there any chance that you might catch this murderer of ours, Mr Hardcastle?’ asked Potts. ‘The Chief Constable has expressed his concern to me about your lack of action.’

  ‘Well, Mr Potts, you can tell your Chief that I have a man in custody who probably committed the murder of the woman you know as Kitty Gordon. Once I have the evidence he’ll be appearing at the Old Bailey in due course.’

  ‘The Old Bailey!’ exclaimed Potts heatedly. ‘If he’s to appear anywhere it should be the assizes at Lewes.’

  ‘I’m charging him with one other murder and very likely two more,’ said Hardcastle mildly, ‘all of which occurred in the County of London. There is no chance that the Director of Public Prosecutions will sanction separate trials just so that you can have the glory of chalking that one up in your books.’

  ‘But that’s outrageous.’

  ‘And that is why I require Sergeant Burgess to assist me in making sure that the evidence against my prisoner is watertight. I wouldn’t like to have to complain to the Chief Constable that you’re obstructing me in the execution of my duty, Mr Potts.’

  ‘How dare you speak to me in such an insubordinate manner. I shall make a formal complaint about your attitude.’

  ‘You’ll need a witness to support your complaint, Mr Potts,’ said Hardcastle, a half smile on his face.

  Potts levelled his gaze at Marriott. ‘You heard what Mr Hardcastle just said to me, Sergeant, didn’t you? It’s your bounden duty to—’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, what did you say? Marriott looked vaguely at the superintendent. ‘I wasn’t really listening.’

  ‘Damn you, the pair of you. Speak to Inspector Weaver. He’ll arrange to get Burgess for you.’ And with that capitulation, Potts returned his attention to the file he had been reading when Hardcastle had burst into his office.

  ‘You should really pay more attention to what people are saying, you know, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle as he and Marriott descended to the ground floor.

  ‘Yes, sir, of course, sir,’ said Marriott, but being behind the DDI, he did not see that Hardcastle was smiling.

  ‘Mr Weaver,’ said Hardcastle, as he pushed open the door of the inspector’s office.

  ‘Hello, sir. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve most likely nicked your murderer for you, Mr Weaver,’ said Hardcastle, and explained about the arrest he had made. ‘And now I need your Sergeant Burgess again. I’ve spoken to Mr Potts and he’s reluctantly agreed to release him. Perhaps you’d arrange it.’

  ‘Of course, sir. He’s patrolling at the moment, but I know where he’ll be making his next point.’

  Ten minutes later, a breathless Sergeant Burgess arrived at the police station. ‘Mr Weaver tells me you’ve made an arrest, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed I have, Burgess, and now I need your help to tie up the loose ends. We’ll start at Warne’s Hotel. Perhaps you’d call a cab.’

  ‘But it’s no more than quarter of a mile from here, sir,’ said Burgess. ‘It’s on Marine Parade at the corner of York Street.’

  ‘You worry too much about the cost, Burgess, but a walk in the sea air will do us good. Don’t you think so, Marriott?’

  ‘I’ll just change into plain clothes, sir,’ said Burgess. ‘I keep them here, just in case.’

  ‘Very resourceful,’ murmured Hardcastle.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Mr Burgess, what brings you here? No trouble, I hope.’ The manager of Warne’s Hotel, immaculately attired in morning dress, crossed the foyer towards the group of police officers.

  ‘These gentlemen are from New Scotland Yard, Mr Quilter.’

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle, Mr Quilter,’ said the DDI, ‘and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’

  ‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’

  ‘Show Mr Quilter the photograph, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘We believe that this man stayed here on the night of Thursday the twentieth of June last, Mr Quilter,’ said Marriott, handing the manager the photograph of Rollo Henson.

  ‘I can’t say that I recognize him,’ said Quilter, having studied the photograph carefully. ‘Is he in some kind of trouble?’

  ‘We suspect him of having committed a murder here in Worthing around that date, Mr Quilter,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Good heavens,’ exclaimed Quilter. ‘Would that be connected with the girl who was found on the beach near the pier?’

  ‘That’s our conclusion,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘The clerk who handled the booking for that day is more likely to be able to assist,’ said Quilter, and led the way across the foyer to the reception counter. ‘Shaw, these gentlemen are from the police.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ said the clerk, apparently unimpressed by this announcement. For a man who, during the course of his service, had greeted both King Edward the Seventh and King George the Fifth, the arrival of the police was of no great moment.

  ‘Mr Shaw, would you look at this photograph and tell me if you’ve seen this man before?’ said Marriott.

  Shaw studied the photograph carefully. ‘Yes, sir, I recognize him. He stayed here. If you’ll bear with me one moment, I’ll tell you when.’ He turned to a ledger and thumbed quickly through the pages. ‘Ah, here we are. He booked in under the name of Mr R. Henson and he stayed here on the night of the twentieth of June.’

  ‘Are you quite certain about that, Mr Shaw?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘I’m positive, sir,’ said Shaw.

  ‘Is there a particular reason that you remember him?’

  ‘Yes, sir. When he returned to the hotel that evening and asked for his key he was out of breath, sir, and he seemed to be somewhat animated about something.’

  ‘Did he say what?’

  ‘No, sir, and it was hardly my place to enquire.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  Shaw gave the question some thought. ‘It would’ve been about eleven o’clock that evening, sir,’ he said eventually. ‘And the gentleman left early the next morning.’

  ‘Was the booking just for one night, Mr Shaw?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Yes, sir. Just the one night. He’d arrived at about three o’clock the day before.’

  ‘Had he booked in advance?’

  Shaw referred to the ledger once more. ‘Yes, sir, by telephone on the eighteenth of June.
’

  Hardcastle turned to the manager. ‘Would it be possible to release Mr Shaw from his duties for half an hour or so, Mr Quilter, in order that he can make a written statement?’

  ‘Of course, Inspector.’ Quilter turned to the clerk. ‘You can use my office, Shaw.’

  ‘It’s very likely that Mr Shaw will be called to give evidence at the Old Bailey in due course, Mr Quilter.’

  ‘I quite understand, Inspector,’ said the manager. ‘A dreadful business. Things like that aren’t good for the holiday trade.’

  ‘They weren’t too good for the victim either,’ said Hardcastle.

  Once Marriott had taken a statement from Shaw, the three officers left the hotel.

  ‘What’s next, sir?’ asked Burgess.

  ‘The shop that sold the bathing dress,’ said Hardcastle, this time insisting on taking a cab.

  Rebecca Kersh, the manageress of the fashion shop, appeared surprised when the three police officers entered her shop only four days after their last visit.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Kersh,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We’d like another word with your assistant Miss Craig, if that’s possible.’

  ‘Of course. She’s having a break at the moment. Come through to the staff room.’

  Dorothy Craig had just finished her cup of tea and was about to return to the shop when the policemen entered the room.

  ‘Miss Craig, these officers would like to speak to you again.’ Rebecca Kersh turned to Hardcastle. ‘I’ll leave you here if this is suitable for your purpose,’ she said, and addressing the shop assistant again, added, ‘There’s no need to rush back, Miss Craig. Business is remarkably light this morning.’

  Hardcastle did not wish to waste any time. ‘Sit down, Miss Craig. I’d like you to look at the photograph that Sergeant Marriott will show you, and tell me if you recognize the man.’

  Dorothy Craig looked carefully at the photograph. ‘That’s the man who purchased the bathing dress the day before that poor girl was found drowned,’ she said without hesitation.

  ‘You’re quite sure, Miss Craig?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘I’m certain,’ said Dorothy Craig. ‘It’s the only one we’ve ever sold and it’s the only time I’ve ever sold a lady’s bathing dress to a man.’