Hardcastle's Quandary

by Graham Ison

  ‘Indeed, I am,’ said Stoner, his face assuming a grave expression. ‘It was bad enough worrying about him during the war, but I didn’t expect to be doing so once it was over.’

  ‘It would be useful if you’d outline what gives you such grave concern, sir,’ said Marriott.

  ‘My nephew Guy was a captain in the Royal Field Artillery during the war. In fact, I think the RFA and the Royal Garrison Artillery have now been joined together into one regiment that’s called the Royal Artillery.’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct,’ said Marriott, glancing up from his note-taking. ‘In 1924.’

  Hardcastle said nothing but was secretly pleased that the clergyman was so pedantic. A man with such an eye for detail and accuracy was likely to give a reliable account of the events troubling him.

  ‘After the war was over, Guy and another officer set up in business in Ditton in Surrey.’

  ‘Doing what, sir?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘It was a chicken farm, but unfortunately they couldn’t make a go of it.’

  ‘It happened to quite a few of them,’ said Hardcastle, not unsympathetically. Too many ex-officers had spent their gratuities and savings on a chicken farm without having explored the difficulties or the market, and all too many of them foundered, often within weeks.

  ‘But then, according to Guy, they decided to turn it into a conventional arable farm, but he didn’t say how he was going to go about it. As far as I recall, he had no experience of farming, but maybe his partner did.’

  ‘Was it a success?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Stoner, placing his hands together in an attitude of supplication. But then he paused. ‘Mind you, Inspector, that was his intention, according to the last letter he wrote. However, I don’t know whether this farm business actually came to fruition. As I implied just now, Guy never struck me as having the qualities needed for farming.’

  ‘You went on to suggest in your letter that you thought some danger may have befallen your nephew.’

  ‘I didn’t suggest it, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Stoner sharply. ‘I wrote that I was convinced he’d been murdered.’

  ‘But what possible grounds can you have for coming to that conclusion? Did you ever visit your nephew in Ditton?’

  ‘No, I must admit that I’m getting a little too old to make such a tortuous journey.’ Stoner drank a good measure of his whisky and leaned back in his chair. ‘Guy always wrote to me once a week without fail, Inspector, even when he was in the army and stationed in Flanders. But when I’d heard nothing for a month, I began to worry. It was so unlike him. We liked to keep in touch since his parents are both dead.’

  ‘When did they die?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘In December 1914,’ said Stoner, ‘when the Germans shelled Hartlepool. It was where they were living,’ he added unnecessarily. ‘Rather ironic when you think about it, that it should have happened when Guy was at the Front. In the Ypres Salient, as a matter of fact. Now the family comprises just him and me.’

  Hardcastle remembered the audacious attack by German battleships that began, without warning, at just after eight o’clock one morning in mid-December. Eighty-six people were killed, and more than four hundred wounded.

  ‘You say he went into partnership, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘Do you know the name of that partner?’

  ‘Yes, I do, but I’ll make absolutely sure I’ve got it right. At my age, it’s always dangerous to rely too much on one’s memory.’ Stoner crossed the room to a bureau, and after ferreting among a collection of loose papers, he produced a small notebook. ‘Ah, here we are. It was a Captain Holroyd, Rupert Holroyd, who was also in the Royal Field Artillery.’

  ‘Did you ever meet the man Holroyd, sir?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘To get back to the question I asked just now, Vicar,’ said Hardcastle, ‘what caused you to believe your nephew may have been murdered?’

  ‘I’m not a rich man, Inspector – few clergymen are – but my brother left a decent sum to me when he was killed in the raid on Hartlepool that I mentioned just now, and rightly left his son, Guy, the bulk of his estate. He’d been a successful industrialist in the north-east, and there was a large memorial service for him when he was killed. He was an alderman as well, so all the town council were there. However, none of that’s important. The point is that a week ago I received a letter purporting to come from Guy, but it was not in his handwriting. The excuse was that he had injured his hand attempting to put out a fire at this farm in Ditton, and he’d asked Rupert Holroyd to write the letter at his dictation. In the letter, he said that the insurance company had declined to pay their claim and they were on their beam ends. He asked if I could help him out on this occasion. Frankly, I found it difficult to believe. Guy had always had a head for figures, and I don’t think he’d have allowed himself to get into such a parlous state.’

  ‘What did you do, Vicar?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘I wrote to Scotland Yard, Inspector,’ said Stoner, in a tone implying that to have done so was the obvious course of action.

  ‘Do you still have the letter you received, apparently from your nephew, sir?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘D’you think we might take it, together with another letter you know to have been written by him? Oh, and a photograph of your nephew would be helpful.’

  ‘Of course.’ Stoner returned to his bureau and after a brief search handed over the letters that Marriott had asked for, and a photograph of Captain Guy Stoner in army uniform.

  ‘Your nephew didn’t have a moustache, sir,’ commented Marriott. ‘A bit unusual for an army officer.’

  ‘He shaved it off in 1916, Mr Marriott, when the army said that to have one was no longer obligatory. Rather a silly rule in the first place, I thought.’

  ‘Very well, Vicar.’ Hardcastle stood up. ‘I shall return to London and look into the matter.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’ Stoner rose to his feet also. ‘I trust you’ll keep me apprised of the outcome.’

  ‘I most certainly will.’ Hardcastle believed that this country clergyman was seeing a mystery where none existed, and that he would find Captain Guy Stoner alive and well, even if, as the letter had claimed, he was a bit short of funds.

  TWO

  On Friday morning, the two detectives took a train from Waterloo to Thames Ditton which, Marriott had assured Hardcastle, was the nearest railway station to Ditton. Hardcastle had proposed taking a taxi for the entire journey from London, but Marriott pointed out that it was close to twenty miles from Cannon Row and convinced him that it would be much quicker to go by train.

  When Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at Thames Ditton railway station, Marriott suggested that they walk to the police station only half a mile away. Somewhat reluctantly, and surprisingly, Hardcastle agreed.

  Arriving at Ditton police station, the DDI, already displeased at having been given a task which rightly should have been Arthur Fitnam’s, was about to be confronted by something else that irritated him. It took a good thirty seconds after he had struck the bell on the counter for a police constable to emerge from the inner recesses of the station.

  ‘I think I might have woken someone up, Marriott.’

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ The constable wiped a few crumbs from his mouth, and then did up the buttons on his tunic.

  ‘I’m DDI Hardcastle of A Division, lad.’ Hardcastle always called constables ‘lad’, regardless of their age, and this PC looked as though he was the DDI’s age, if not older. ‘Is there a sergeant here?’

  ‘Not today, sir. It’s his rest day.’

  ‘Heaven help us!’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘Who are you, then?’

  ‘PC Albert Perkins, sir. I’m the station officer – just for the day, like. You’re a long way from home, sir, if you don’t mind me saying. As a matter of fact, one of the lads has just made a pot of tea. I dare say you could do with one after coming all the way from Lon
don.’ Perkins made it sound as though London was on the other side of the moon.

  ‘I haven’t got time to waste drinking tea, lad,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘I’m here to take over Mr Fitnam’s job for him.’

  Suddenly, the constable straightened up. ‘Oh, I see, sir. Welcome to V Division,’ he responded half-heartedly. The prospect of this fiery DDI appearing at regular intervals in the tranquil and bucolic setting of Ditton’s bailiwick was extremely disturbing. It was apparent from Perkins’s reaction that he had mistakenly assumed Hardcastle was replacing Fitnam permanently, and Hardcastle saw no reason to disabuse him.

  ‘What d’you know about a fire that took place recently on this manor, Perkins? It belonged to two former army officers named Stoner and Holroyd.’

  ‘Where is this place, sir?’

  ‘For God’s sake, lad, I don’t know,’ said Hardcastle, his temper shortening by the minute. ‘That’s why I’m asking. In my young day, a constable was expected to know everything about his manor.’

  The PC ran a hand round his chin. ‘To be honest, I don’t rightly know, sir. You see, sir, I’ve only just returned to duty after a longish spell on the sick list. I had a touch of pleurisy, you see, sir, and I had to—’

  ‘I’m not interested in your ailments, lad. Just get on with it.’

  ‘Ah, yes, sir. Big investigations like that are dealt with by the CID at Surbiton. We don’t have much call for that sort of thing round here, which is why we haven’t got a CID. That, and being a sectional station, I mean.’

  ‘Does this sectional station have a telephone, by any chance, Perkins?’ enquired Marriott sharply. Although of a more equable disposition than the DDI, he too was becoming increasingly irritated by the relaxed attitude of Police Constable Albert Perkins.

  ‘That we do, sir.’ The constable seemed quite pleased that he was able, at last, to give a positive reply.

  ‘Don’t call me “sir”; I’m a detective sergeant,’ snapped Marriott. ‘I suggest you get on the telephone and find an answer to the DDI’s question about this fire; otherwise he’s likely to have words with the sub-divisional inspector about inefficiency. And that, of course, could result in transfers out and transfers in. A few spells of point duty in Whitehall would soon get rid of your illnesses.’

  Perkins looked visibly shocked at the thought of duty in a Central London division, but said nothing.

  ‘Better still,’ put in Hardcastle, ‘I want a CID officer who knows about this matter to get on his bicycle and come down here a bit tout de suite.’

  ‘It’s nigh on three miles, sir,’ said PC Perkins, his tone of voice suggesting that Hardcastle had just proposed an impossibility.

  ‘Shouldn’t take him long, then.’

  The detective who appeared at Ditton police station was in his forties. Hot and breathless, he entered the sergeant’s office where Hardcastle and Marriott had, after all, accepted a cup of tea. His suit was ill-fitting, and he wore a flashy tie of which Hardcastle immediately disapproved.

  ‘Detective Constable Mitchell, sir.’ The Surbiton CID officer took off his trilby hat and bent down to remove the bicycle clips from the bottom of his trouser legs. ‘I understand you’re making enquiries about the fire at Ditton Garage.’ He tugged at his ragged moustache.

  ‘Ditton Garage, Mitchell? Why are you talking about a garage? I’m looking for a farm. At least that’s what I was told by Captain Stoner’s uncle.’

  Mitchell referred to a file that he took from under his arm. ‘The premises were owned jointly by Guy Stoner and Rupert Holroyd, sir. Both ex-army captains by all accounts. It was originally run as a chicken farm from about 1922 to 1925, but then it went bottoms up.’ The DC paused to glance up from the docket he was reading. ‘A lot of ’em did, sir,’ he added philosophically.

  ‘Who investigated this fire, Mitchell?’ snapped Hardcastle, who was in no mood to discuss the economics of chicken farming.

  ‘Inspector Granger, sir. He’s stationed at Surbiton.’

  ‘Is he a Uniform Branch officer?’ Hardcastle’s voice registered surprise.

  ‘Yes, he is, sir. You see, when the fire happened, there was nothing suspicious about it, and as far as I know, there isn’t now.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘But where does this business of a garage come into the picture?’

  ‘After the chicken farm went under, those two officers decided that a garage was the best way forward, what with more and more people buying motor cars.’

  ‘Captain Stoner’s uncle said something about arable farming after the chicken farm failed,’ said Marriott.

  ‘I’ve no knowledge of that, Sergeant. But as far as a garage was concerned, there were already garages in Esher and Surbiton, as well as in Kingston, and it seemed car owners were more likely to trust the older, established firms for repairs, rather than one in a converted barn run by a couple of ex-officers. And there wasn’t enough trade in just selling petrol to keep ’em going, so to speak. What’s more, Sergeant,’ Mitchell continued, intent on airing his local knowledge, ‘the Kingston bypass should be opened later this year, and there’ll be a few garages along there in the fullness of time, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘When exactly did this fire take place?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Monday the fourteenth of March, sir,’ said Mitchell, without hesitation. ‘The report says that the brigade was called at five thirty-five that afternoon.’

  ‘What sort of damage was done to the premises, Mitchell?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Only two areas of damage, Sergeant. There was a barn that had been converted into a workshop and there was also an office. The office is still structurally sound, but the desk had been completely destroyed, and there was a lot of burnt paper on the floor, which Inspector Granger noted in his report. The old chicken run and another row of barns weren’t affected by the fire at all. Funny thing, though, was that the insurance company must’ve had their doubts about the cause of the fire because they refused to pay out.’

  ‘How far apart are these two places that were burned down – the office and the workshop?’

  ‘Quite a distance, Sergeant. I mean, not a great distance, but probably too far for one to have caught fire from the other, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Did the insurance company ask the police to investigate?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, sir.’

  ‘Where are these two ex-officers now?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘I don’t rightly know, sir,’ said Mitchell. ‘It seems they left the area, but I don’t know where to.’

  ‘Has this place been sold, then?’

  ‘I’m not sure about that, sir. I did hear that an estate agent in Kingston had the place on his books, but I don’t know whether he’s had any luck selling it.’

  ‘What’s the name of this agent? And while you’re about it, you can give me the name of the insurance company as well.’

  Mitchell referred to his file. ‘I think I made a note of them both somewhere, sir. Ah, yes, here we are. The estate agents are called Coates and Company in the High Street, and the insurance company’s the Surrey Insurance Company Limited.’ He glanced up. ‘Their head office is in the City of London, sir.’

  ‘Have they got a local office closer than that?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Yes, they have, sir. That’s in Kingston, too. I’ll give you that address as well.’

  ‘How far away is this garage, Mitchell?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Go to the top of the road and turn right, Sergeant, and it’s about twenty yards down, on the other side of Portsmouth Road.’

  ‘In that case, you can show us the way.’

  As the three CID officers walked out to the front office of the police station, the acting station officer appeared.

  ‘Everything all right, gentlemen?’ asked Perkins, his hands fluttering nervously in front of him. Marriott’s cautionary comment about transfers had obviously alarmed him.

  ‘No,’ said Hardc
astle, thereby causing the constable further distress. ‘But what you can do, lad, is get on that telephone of yours and find me a taxi that’ll take Sergeant Marriott and me to Kingston, once I’ve been down to look at this here ruined garage.’

  Hardcastle and Marriott, accompanied by Mitchell, walked the short distance to the site of the garage owned by Stoner and Holroyd, but there was little to see. As Mitchell had said, the fire had affected the brick-built, burned-out office and the barn-cum-workshop. The detectives hazarded a guess at the site being somewhere in the region of an acre, possibly an acre and a half.

  ‘We’ll get back to Ditton nick, then, Mitchell,’ said Hardcastle, ‘where Perkins should have arranged a taxi to take us to this estate agent at Kingston. I won’t offer you a lift as you’ve got your bicycle. Anyway, the exercise will do you good.’

  ‘I might see you later, then, sir.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt, Mitchell. In the meantime, you can tell me of a decent pub in Kingston where Sergeant Marriott and I can get a pie and a pint.’

  ‘There’s the Three Fishes in Richmond Road, sir. That’s a good pub, and not far from the insurance agent I mentioned.’

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. How may I be of assistance?’ An unctuous man crossed the floor of the estate agency the moment that Hardcastle and Marriott entered. He was immaculately dressed in a single-breasted lounge suit, with a double-breasted waistcoat and a red handkerchief that overflowed a little too much from his top pocket. To cover his advancing baldness, he had plastered the remains of his hair across his head in what was known as a ‘fold-over’ style.

  ‘Are you the manager?’ asked Hardcastle, who was unreasonably suspicious of men who wore double-breasted waistcoats.

  ‘Indeed, I am, sir.’ The manager revolved his hands around each other in a washing motion. ‘Wilfred Chapman at your service, sir.’

  ‘I understand that you are acting for the owners of a garage in Ditton that’s for sale,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘That is correct, sir. Allow me to fetch the details. I’m sure you’ll find it a most attractive site with great potential for development.’