Hardcastle's Quandary

by Graham Ison

  ‘I was given orders directly by the Chief Constable CID at Scotland Yard, sir, and the earl’s address was, of course, in Burke’s Peerage.’ Catto did not want to get the helpful constable at the railway station into any sort of trouble and was sure that the inspector would have neither the courage nor the facilities to question a chief constable at Scotland Yard. ‘However, sir, I’m willing to share what little information I obtained from Lord Wilmslow.’

  ‘D’you mean you actually spoke to the earl, Sergeant Catto?’ Inspector Culkin seemed quite taken aback that an earl should indulge in a conversation with a mere sergeant, but an even more startling revelation was about to be disclosed.

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. He insisted that we should have a glass of whisky together, and he introduced me to Dolly, the new countess.’

  ‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Culkin, unable to take it all in.

  ‘However, the information, sir …’ Catto went on to tell Culkin what little he had learned from the earl about his missing daughter, Lady Lavinia Quilter, but forbore from suggesting that she might have been murdered. That would be much too much for the inspector to take in. ‘My divisional detective inspector would, I’m sure, be grateful for any further information that you may come across.’

  ‘Well, of course, Sergeant. We’re always happy to assist other forces. Perhaps you’d leave his telephone number with me before you go.’

  ELEVEN

  Immediately following Catto’s departure for Kings Worthy, Hardcastle had made a snap decision to send Marriott to Oakham in Rutland. Although the local police had assured him that they had checked Holroyd’s alibi, and that he had stayed with his relatives over the weekend of the fire at the Ditton garage, Hardcastle intended to have it confirmed by one of his own officers. The decision surprised Marriott. It was not long ago that the DDI would have made the enquiry himself, trusting no one to do the job as well as he could. It was, to Marriott, a sign that Hardcastle was beginning to slow down.

  Marriott arrived at Leicester railway station at five past eleven, about the time Catto was arriving at the Earl of Wilmslow’s seat. Unlike Hardcastle, who would have taken a taxi to Oakham, Marriott caught a train for the half-hour journey. However, he did take a cab from the railway station to Cornhill Street, where Holroyd’s sister lived with her husband and her widowed mother in a terrace house.

  The woman who answered the door was probably about thirty, but her careworn face belied her age.

  ‘If it’s about the rent, my husband won’t be in from work until gone six o’clock.’ It was a statement that was spoken so automatically that she must have said it many times.

  ‘I’m not a rent collector,’ said Marriott, as he raised his bowler hat. ‘I’m a police officer. Mrs Ethel Barton, is it?’

  ‘Whatever’s happened? It’s not one of the boys, is it? I mean, the school would have told me if there’d been an accident.’

  ‘It’s regarding your brother’s statement to the police that he stayed here one weekend in March, Mrs Barton.’

  ‘But a copper has been here about that already, mister.’ Suddenly aware that one of the neighbours was listening to their conversation, Ethel Barton quickly ushered Marriott into the house and, unlocking the door to the parlour, showed him into what she called the ‘best room’. Despite it being late April and still chilly, there was no fire in the grate, just a newspaper folded, clearly with great care, into a fan shape.

  ‘So I understand, Mrs Barton, but I’m Detective Sergeant Marriott of the Metropolitan Police, and I’m one of the officers investigating the fire at the garage your brother part-owned. He told us that he stayed here between the eleventh and the fourteenth of March this year. Is that correct?’

  There was some hesitation before Ethel Barton answered, but then she said, ‘Yes, I think he did. I’m not very good with dates. I remember he came up here for a few days last month, but I’m not sure what the dates were. My husband, Harold, would know for sure.’

  ‘Is he here, then? I thought you said your husband was at work until after six o’clock.’

  ‘That’s right, but if you want to talk to him, he works at Springett’s. It’s the butchers in the High Street.’

  The parlour door opened and an old woman shuffled slowly into the room with the aid of a walking stick upon which she leaned heavily. Her straggly grey hair was matted and uncombed, and her appearance suggested that she had dressed herself in the first items of clothing that had come to hand, regardless of their colour and without considering whether they were clean. ‘What’s going on, Ethel?’ she demanded, casting a malevolent glance in Marriott’s direction.

  ‘This gentleman’s from the police in London, Mother. It’s about the weekend that Rupert spent up here last month.’

  ‘Rupert’s in the army, fighting for King and Country,’ declared Mrs Holroyd. She stared more closely at Marriott. ‘And why aren’t you in the army, a fit young man like you?’

  ‘The war’s over, Mother,’ said a clearly exasperated Ethel Barton. Marriott imagined that this conversation was one that took place quite frequently.

  ‘Why hasn’t my Roy come home, then, eh? It’s all lies. That Lloyd George ain’t to be trusted. It can’t be over or my Roy would have come home.’

  Ethel sighed. ‘Roy’s not coming home, Mother. Roy was killed at Passchendaele.’ She turned to Marriott. ‘His name’s on the back wall at Tyne Cot cemetery in Belgium. They never found his body, you see. Of course, Mother doesn’t believe it, even though we took her there to see the memorial just after the war. Roy was only a private, unlike his brother Rupert.’

  ‘Some bobby from the local cop-shop come here about that,’ said Mrs Holroyd, glancing at Marriott as she suddenly switched back to the present day and the reason for his being there.

  ‘D’you recall the dates, Mrs Holroyd?’ asked Marriott hopefully.

  ‘No, I don’t, mister. Anyhow, what’s this all about? My son is a war hero, you know. He’s a captain in the army in Belgium. He ain’t no criminal, I can tell you that for nothing. And he ain’t had leave for years.’

  ‘I’ve met your son, Mrs Holroyd, and he’s helping us to find out who set fire to his garage.’ Marriott thought it impolitic to mention that Holroyd was in custody awaiting trial for forgery and was, at least in Marriott’s view, a suspect for the murder of Guy Stoner and the woman whom Gerald Walker had identified as his wife, the former Celine Fontenau.

  ‘You can’t have done, mister. He’s fighting in Flanders. Hasn’t been home on leave for years.’

  ‘Rupert left the army nine years ago, Mother. The war’s over.’ Ethel emitted a sigh of sheer frustration.

  ‘You better speak to my son-in-law, Harold, mister,’ said Mrs Holroyd, ignoring what her daughter had said. ‘He’s got a head on him, that one. He’ll remember.’ She ferreted about in the pocket of the shapeless woollen cardigan she was wearing and produced a white feather. Handing it to Marriott, she said, ‘You should join up today, young man. If my two sons can fight, then so can you.’

  ‘Yes, I think that’s a good idea,’ said Marriott, who had quickly realized that he was unlikely to make any progress with Ethel Barton and even less with her mother. ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you, Mrs Barton. I’ll let myself out.’

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ said Ethel, as she followed Marriott out to the tiny hall. ‘Speak to my husband; he’ll remember. And I’m sorry about my mother, mister. Her mind’s gone. It was losing my brother Roy that did it. She’s never been the same since.’

  It was only a short distance from Cornhill Street to the High Street where Harold Barton worked for Springett the butcher, and Marriott decided to walk.

  There were three assistants working behind the counter of the crowded shop when Marriott entered, one of whom moved along the counter until he was facing the sergeant.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Harold Barton,’ said Marriott.

  ‘I’m Harry Barton. What’s this abou
t?’ Barton was a big man, probably about forty years of age. He was a red-faced individual with a jovial countenance that gave the impression he would be a boisterous and amusing companion.

  ‘Perhaps we could speak somewhere that’s more private, Mr Barton.’ Marriott discreetly displayed his warrant card in such a way that the other shoppers would be unaware that he was a police officer.

  ‘Just a minute.’ Barton turned to another man. ‘There’s a copper here who wants to talk to me, Mr Springett,’ he said quietly. ‘Can I use your office?’

  ‘Yes, but try not to be too long, Harry. You know what Fridays are like. They’ll be lining up out of the door in a minute.’

  Barton led Marriott up a short flight of stairs and into a tiny office overlooking the High Street. There was only one chair and that was behind a small desk. The two men remained standing.

  ‘Now what’s this all about?’ demanded Barton truculently, his voice changing to a hostile pitch. ‘I told one of your blokes last month about Rupert staying up here, and I don’t want you lot badgering me and my family. We gave your bloke the answers, so why are you back here again? Anyway, how did you know where I worked?’

  ‘Your wife told me, Mr Barton.’

  ‘Stupid bitch. I think having that batty mother of hers living with her is affecting her brain an’ all. Anyway, you had no right to go calling at my house. It upsets the pair of ’em. An’ I told that young copper of yours the same. I sent him off with his tail between his legs.’

  ‘The officer who spoke to you last time wasn’t one of my officers. I’m Detective Sergeant Marriott of Scotland Yard.’ Barton obviously needed to be brought down a peg or two, and Marriott decided unashamedly to gild the lily by stating he was from the Yard. It had the desired effect.

  ‘Oh, I never knew that. Rupert’s not in any sort of trouble, is he?’ Barton was at once deferential, the mention of Scotland Yard having unnerved him more than a little. The headquarters of the Metropolitan Police had an awesome reputation that had spread throughout the world.

  ‘That rather depends,’ said Marriott. ‘We have two cases under investigation, and it’s possible that your brother-in-law may be involved in both of them.’

  ‘Cases of what?’ Barton began to fidget nervously with his wedding ring.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say at this stage, Mr Barton, but it’s essential that you’re honest in what you say to me; otherwise you may find yourself in trouble.’

  ‘I don’t think I should say anything else until I’ve spoken to my solicitor,’ said Barton.

  ‘Your unwillingness to confirm something that apparently you confirmed to the local police leaves me wondering why.’ Marriott very much doubted that Barton had a solicitor or even knew how to get hold of one. ‘Did you lie to the police officer from Rutland who came to see you and your wife?’

  But Barton remained silent and it was obvious to Marriott that the butcher was not going to say another word.

  Once Marriott and Catto had returned, Hardcastle sent for them. To their surprise, he invited both of them to sit down.

  ‘What have you to report?’ asked Hardcastle. ‘You first, Marriott.’

  ‘I’m not altogether sure that the police in Rutland did their job properly, sir. Holroyd’s mother is suffering from senile dementia as a result of her youngest son being killed at Passchendaele, and is completely useless as a witness. Ethel Barton, Holroyd’s sister, was uncertain about the dates that Holroyd was supposed to have stayed there. Either that or she was being deliberately vague, although frankly I don’t think she’s clever enough to be that devious. But then we come to Harold Barton. He’s a butcher, and when I suggested—’

  ‘A butcher, did you say?’ Hardcastle suddenly became interested. ‘I must have a word with Sir Bernard and find out if he thinks the dismembering was done by a professional. Go on, Marriott.’

  Marriott considered the evidence that had been accrued so far. There was no indication that Harold Barton had a motive for murdering Guy Stoner or the girl, nor could he see any reason for him to travel to Ditton from Oakham – a distance of at least a hundred and fifty miles – to be complicit in one. On the other hand, he may have been covering for Rupert Holroyd, who possibly had not been in Oakham that weekend at all. But he did not share those thoughts with the DDI. ‘I spoke to Barton at his place of work, sir, but the moment I told him who I was and why I was there, he clammed up. He refused to say anything until he’d spoken to his solicitor – not that I think he’s got a solicitor.’

  ‘Did he indeed! We find two dismembered bodies and then we come across a butcher who doesn’t want to talk to the police.’ Hardcastle took his pipe from the ashtray and teased the remains of the tobacco from it with the point of a paperknife. ‘I think, Marriott,’ he continued thoughtfully, as he began to fill his pipe with St Bruno, ‘that we’ll have to speak to Mr Barton, preferably at a police station. And that means that we’ll have to involve the Rutland Constabulary, which is a nuisance.’

  ‘Couldn’t we have them arrest Barton on suspicion of murder, sir, and then fetch him down here for interview?’

  ‘D’you know, Marriott, I do believe you’re beginning to think like an inspector.’ Hardcastle lit his pipe and, with a satisfied smile on his face, emitted a plume of smoke towards his nicotine-stained ceiling. ‘Well, Catto, and what did you find out in the wilds of Hampshire?’

  ‘Far from learning the present whereabouts of Lady Lavinia Quilter, sir, the Earl of Wilmslow was under the impression that I was looking for her on behalf of the Winchester City Police. He reported Lady Lavinia missing to that force on Monday the seventh of March, sir.’

  ‘Did he, be damned!’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘That’s the week that the fire took place, and I’m beginning to think that it’s also the week when Stoner and the girl were murdered.’

  ‘There’s a further complication, sir …’

  ‘Yes, there always is when you’re involved, Catto,’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The earl said that Lady Lavinia had been going around with Stoner, and that they’d visited West End nightclubs and the like. On one occasion, the earl said, her ladyship had taken Stoner to Kings Worthy to meet him. But the earl was adamant that the Stoner he met had a large, bushy moustache. If you remember, sir, the vicar gave you a photograph of Guy Stoner in uniform, and he was clean-shaven. Sergeant Marriott told me that, according to the vicar, young Stoner had shaved off his moustache in 1916 after the army had rescinded the order requiring officers to grow one.’

  ‘Yes, dammit, I do remember,’ said Hardcastle.

  For a few minutes, the DDI sat in silent contemplation, and Marriott knew what was about to happen. On so many occasions in the past, he had witnessed one of Hardcastle’s thoughtful moods, after which he would come up with some bizarre course of action that very often resulted in solving the case. Marriott had only one reservation: he believed that Hardcastle’s renowned detective abilities had started to diminish with age, and that he might now make a wrong decision.

  At last, Hardcastle moved forward in his chair. ‘We’ll get a warrant for the arrest of Harold Barton, Marriott, and bring him down here for a talk. See to it, will you.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott wearily.

  ‘What do we know about this here Rutland Constabulary?’

  ‘It’s very small, sir – only a handful of officers.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Hardcastle, with mock concern. ‘Small forces are always jealous of their bailiwick, but that won’t stop us seeking their assistance.’

  On the Saturday morning, Hardcastle decided that he would go to Bow Street himself to obtain the warrant for Harold Barton’s arrest. It was not that he distrusted Marriott, but the application for the arrest of a man in Rutland was unusual in that Hardcastle merely wanted to question him. That the application was made by a divisional detective inspector rather than a detective sergeant lent weight to the importance attached to the matter.

  Th
e warrant was granted, and Hardcastle returned to his office at Cannon Row.

  ‘Marriott, get on that telephone machine and tell the Rutland Constabulary to arrest Harold Barton and that we’ll send two officers up to Oakham to collect him.’

  ‘It’ll be quicker to send a message by telegraph, sir.’

  ‘Well, do it,’ said Hardcastle tetchily. ‘You know I can’t abide all this modern equipment they keep foisting on us, Marriott. It’ll not last; you mark my words.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott refrained from pointing out that the telegraph system had been installed in every Metropolitan Police station some sixty years before.

  Marriott sent his message requesting that the Rutland Constabulary arrest Harold Barton and asked them to inform the Metropolitan Police when this had been done.

  The result, however, was not quite what either he or Hardcastle had expected.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Marriott, entering Hardcastle’s office.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The Rutland Constabulary is not prepared to arrest Barton, sir. They suggest we send two officers to Rutland with the warrant and have it backed by a local magistrate. The arrest should then be carried out by the officer named on the warrant.’ Marriott hesitated before adding, ‘That’s you, sir.’

  ‘Hell’s bells and buckets of blood!’ yelled Hardcastle. ‘Don’t they know anything about the bloody law up there in Rutland? I’ve never heard such damned claptrap in all my service. That warrant was issued by the Chief Metropolitan Magistrate. Who was the jack-in-office who sent this reply?’

  ‘The Chief Constable of Rutland, sir.’

  ‘Was it indeed? Well, I shall arrange for him to have a conversation with the Chief Constable of the CID at Scotland Yard.’ Hardcastle stood up and seized his bowler hat and umbrella.

  Returning twenty minutes later, he shouted for Marriott as he passed the door to the detectives’ room.