Hardcastle's Quandary

by Graham Ison

  ‘Mr Wensley explained the status of Sir John Hanbury, the Chief Magistrate, to the Chief Constable of Rutland, Marriott, and he eventually understood. Rutland officers will make the arrest, but Mr Wensley suggested that it would save time and trouble if you and I went up there rather than waiting for Barton to be brought down here. Rutland will arrest him as soon as possible and advise us when they’ve done so.’

  ‘When do we go to Oakham, sir?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Hardcastle, as though that were obvious. ‘You didn’t have anything planned for Sunday, did you?’ He posed the question airily, as though CID officers should never make plans for anything of a social nature, even on a Sunday.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Marriott wearily, wondering how he was going to explain to Lorna, his wife, the cancellation of a family day out to the Regent’s Park zoo.

  ‘Good. How do we get there?’

  ‘From St Pancras, sir. It’ll take about an hour and a half to Leicester. And then there’s a train from there to Oakham that takes a further half an hour.’

  ‘One train ride will be quite enough. We’ll take a cab from Leicester to Oakham. While you’re waiting for Rutland to tell you they’ve arrested Barton, you’d better make some enquiries about local hotels, Marriott, in case we have to stay overnight.’

  It was at six o’clock in the evening that the call from Rutland Constabulary came through. Harold Barton was in custody at Oakham police station where he would be held overnight pending the arrival of the Metropolitan Police officers. There was a caveat, however. If officers from London did not arrive on Sunday, Barton would be released without charge.

  ‘Damn it!’ explained Hardcastle. ‘The sooner that pygmy police force is taken over by the Leicestershire police the better.’ But it was to be another twenty-four years before that amalgamation took place.

  ‘There’s a very good pub in the Market Place at Oakham that does accommodation, sir.’

  ‘Well, at least there’ll be some benefit coming out of this fiasco, I suppose, Marriott. I hope they sell decent ale.’

  TWELVE

  Sunday morning did not start well for Hardcastle. Having reminded Marriott to purchase second-class train tickets and to buy him a copy of the News of the World, Hardcastle was annoyed to discover that the St Pancras station bookstall had run out of the DDI’s favourite Sunday paper, and only copies of the Sunday Pictorial remained.

  And as if that was not enough, the newspaper’s front page carried a two-year-old account of the murderer Norman Thorne’s lovers, one of whom he had killed and dismembered at his chicken farm in Sussex in 1925. Sir Bernard Spilsbury had given telling evidence in the case, and Thorne had been hanged. Sir Bernard had mentioned it when examining the grisly remains of Stoner and the woman found at Ditton, and he had drawn a comparison between that and the Thorne case. The newspaper account also had the effect of reminding Hardcastle that he was no nearer finding the murderer’s identity than he had been at the outset.

  It was nearing eleven o’clock when the two detectives arrived at Oakham police station.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked the station sergeant.

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Metropolitan Police. You have Harold Barton in custody at this station.’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s correct. He’s not very happy about it either, protesting that he’s done nothing wrong. He also asked if he could go to church, it being a Sunday like.’

  ‘I’m not interested in whether he’s happy or miserable, Sergeant, or whether he missed out on having a pray. He’d be better off talking to a solicitor than a priest. Do you have an interview room here?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we do.’

  ‘Be so good as to show me where it is, and then have the prisoner Barton brought up.’

  ‘Well, sir, but I—’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Hardcastle, in such a way as to stem any further discussion of the matter.

  Harold Barton, not only annoyed at what he saw as an unjustified arrest, but intent on making a protest, irritably shook off the restraining hand of the constable who brought him to the interview room. It was made more difficult because he was holding up his trousers, a conscientious sergeant having removed the prisoner’s belt, braces and necktie, for fear that he might be tempted to hang himself.

  ‘I want to complain about being dragged in here last night as if I was some common criminal,’ protested Barton loudly. ‘I’m going to write to my MP and I’m going to—’

  ‘Sit down and shut up,’ said Hardcastle mildly.

  For a moment or two the butcher stared aggressively at Hardcastle, but then, sensing that the DDI was a man whom it would be unwise to cross, sat down on the chair opposite the two detectives. At that point, he recognized Marriott. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said, as if blaming the sergeant for his present predicament.

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of New Scotland Yard,’ began the DDI, unwittingly following Marriott’s example in enhancing his status, ‘and I’m going to ask you some questions. I strongly advise you to answer them truthfully; otherwise I’ll remove you to London where you’ll probably be charged with conspiracy to murder.’

  ‘What?’ Barton went white in the face and gripped the sides of the table. ‘I never done no murder, mister, as God’s my witness.’

  ‘Sir Bernard Spilsbury,’ continued Hardcastle, as though Barton’s outburst had not occurred, ‘is the best forensic pathologist in the world. He has examined two bodies that were found at the site of a garage in Ditton, Surrey, which was part-owned by your brother-in-law, Captain Rupert Holroyd.’ He paused to give his next statement impact. ‘The bodies had been dismembered and Sir Bernard’s professional opinion is that whoever was responsible for that dismembering had received professional training. Like a butcher!’

  It was enough. Barton began sweating, little rivulets of perspiration running down his red face. Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he started to dab at his face and neck.

  ‘It’s not what you think, Inspector,’ Barton was eventually able to gasp. Even though he had been deprived of his tie, he felt almost as if he was choking.

  ‘Well, that’s original,’ said Hardcastle, leaning back in his chair and taking out his pipe and tobacco. ‘But I’ll tell you what I am thinking. I’m thinking that your brother-in-law murdered his partner and his partner’s girlfriend in a fit of rage and then realized that he’d have to get rid of the bodies. Enter Harold Barton, the butcher of Oakham.’ The DDI made it sound as though Barton was a psychotic mass murderer. ‘The weekend Rupert Holroyd told me that he was in Oakham, staying with you and your family in Cornhill Street, he was really in Ditton committing a double murder. He probably then sent you a telegram – or got in contact somehow – pleading with you to go south and help him out. Which you did, no doubt for a handsome fee – money he’d actually stolen from Captain Guy Stoner, one of his victims.’

  Hardcastle began to fill his pipe, and Marriott took over the questioning. ‘The situation is this, Barton. My inspector is of a mind to charge you with murder or conspiring to commit murder.’

  ‘And it’ll give me great pleasure to see you dancing on the hangman’s trap at eight o’clock one morning, Barton,’ put in Hardcastle, as he was lighting his pipe.

  ‘Even if my inspector goes down the scale a bit and instead charges you with being an accessory after the fact or even disposing of a corpse with intent to obstruct or prevent a coroner’s inquest, you’ll still be facing the rest of your life in prison.’ That was unlikely, but Marriott felt that emphasizing the gravity of Barton’s situation would encourage him to tell the police exactly what did happen.

  ‘Could I have a drink of water?’ pleaded the sweating Barton, only just managing to get the words out. For a moment, it looked as though the butcher might fall off his chair in a dead faint.

  Marriott went to the door of the interview room. ‘Constable!’

  ‘Sir?’ The policeman outside respon
ded immediately.

  ‘Would you get some water for the prisoner, please.’

  ‘Yes, sir, right away, sir.’

  Moments later, the officer returned with an enamel jug of water and a tin mug that he placed on the table. ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  ‘Thank you, yes,’ said Marriott, wondering if the policeman had ever been a footman or a butler as his deferential attitude seemed to suggest. He could not be bothered to correct the PC’s assumption that he was an inspector. He watched as Barton gulped down a full mug of water. ‘Well, d’you have anything to say, Barton?’

  ‘It didn’t happen like that, sir.’

  ‘Then tell me how it did happen, Barton,’ said Hardcastle, now taking a renewed interest.

  ‘Rupert spent the whole of that weekend bedding some doxy in Hampshire, and when he got back on the Sunday afternoon, he found two bodies in the office of the garage what him and Mr Stoner owned. Well, he must’ve panicked because he’d told me before that he’d been stealing money from Mr Stoner’s bank account and that the law would think he’d done him in because he was going to peach on him.’

  ‘It had already happened,’ said Hardcastle quietly. ‘We know all about the forged cheques, but do go on with this fascinating story.’

  ‘So, first thing on Monday morning, Rupert is on the phone to the shop where I work – Springett’s in the High Street – in a right panic. He said I’d got to get on the next train straight away and get down there as soon as I could. He said he’d make it worth my while. And that’s what happened. I told my boss that my missus had been taken to hospital, and he said to take as much time off as I needed.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘I caught the next train from Leicester and met Rupert at the garage. I cut up the bodies and Rupert buried them, some bits in the old workshop and some others in the chicken run, and I think he put one of the heads in an old biscuit tin and chucked it on a pile of rubbish in the corner of the yard. Then Rupert set fire to the office and the workshop. I pushed off back here straight after that, and Rupert said he was going to call the fire brigade like he’d just arrived and found the place burning. But before he left, he said that if the bogeys come asking if he’d been at Oakham that weekend, I was to tell ’em yes, because that was going to be his story.’

  ‘What a wonderful tale,’ said Hardcastle, relighting his pipe, ‘and I don’t believe a word of it.’

  ‘But it’s the God’s honest truth, sir. I swear it. You’ve got to believe me.’ Barton’s tone of voice had now been reduced to a whining supplication, a radical change from the truculent attitude he had adopted upon entering the interview room. But it was to no avail.

  ‘Where were the bodies when you arrived, Barton?’

  ‘In the workshop. It’s where I did the cutting up.’

  ‘Sergeant Marriott and I will take you back to London today, and you’ll be charged with the offence Sergeant Marriott mentioned just now – disposing of a corpse with intent to prevent an inquest. But I warn you, Barton, that’s only a holding charge. I’ve no doubt that more serious charges will follow.’

  ‘But what’s going to happen to Ethel and the bairns?’

  ‘You should have thought of that before you rushed down to Ditton and took your handful of dirty gold,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Incidentally, what did you use to dismember those bodies?’

  ‘I took my own set of saws and knives down there with me. Every butcher worth his salt has his own set. Rupert had told me what I had to do, so I knew to bring my own kit.’

  ‘Going equipped,’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘Evidence of intent.’ But he meant intent to murder. ‘And I suppose you used those tools of your trade to cut up someone’s weekend joint when you went back to work.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘God help us!’ exclaimed Hardcastle.

  It was late evening by the time Hardcastle and Marriott got back to London and charged Harold Barton. At nine o’clock, Hardcastle sent Marriott home, and Hardcastle went home himself. Straight into a heated discussion about telephones.

  ‘If only you’d have a telephone connected, Ernie,’ said his wife, Alice, ‘you could ring me up and I could have your supper ready for you when you walk through the door. As it is, I have to wait till you’re here and then start cooking.’

  ‘For the last time, Alice, I’m not having one of those things in this house, and that’s final. Just imagine what would happen if someone at the station didn’t know what to do. They’d be straight on it, ringing me up and asking my advice.’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare,’ said Alice drily. ‘But you never give a thought for me, do you, Ernest?’

  ‘I think about you all the time, Alice, my dear,’ said Hardcastle apprehensively. Whenever Alice used his full Christian name, he knew that some criticism was about to be directed at him.

  ‘Maud and Charles are back in Aldershot now, as you well know. And they have a telephone.’ Their daughter Maud had married Charles Spencer, an army officer, back in 1919.

  ‘Yes, but he’s a lieutenant colonel, Alice, and he’s in command of the battalion.’

  ‘Exactly. That is so his officers can telephone him whenever there’s something he needs to know about. And you’re a divisional detective inspector and you’re in command of all the CID officers on A Division – so what’s the difference? Apart from anything else,’ Alice continued, before her husband was able to mount a counter-argument, ‘it would very nice if I could ring Maud from time to time. Much more personal than exchanging letters every week, and I’d like to know how the children were getting on at school, for instance, or if Maud wanted to ask my advice if they had any health problems, she could just ring me. I would have thought that you’d take a greater interest in your daughter and son-in-law and your grandchildren.’

  ‘I speak to Walter every so often.’ The moment he had spoken, Hardcastle realized that in attempting to defend himself, he had made a mistake.

  ‘Yes, and I’d like to speak to him, too,’ said Alice triumphantly. ‘But you use the police telephone at Cannon Row to talk to Wally on his police telephone at the Flying Squad, don’t you? It doesn’t cost you a penny. And that’s the truth of the matter, isn’t it, Ernest? You’re too mean. Aren’t you interested in your grandson Edward or how Wally’s wife is? In case you’d forgotten, her name’s Muriel and she’s expecting another child two months from now. Or had you forgotten that, too?’

  ‘I’ll look into it, Alice,’ said Hardcastle reluctantly. He knew that his wife would keep on and on until eventually he capitulated.

  ‘I’ve already looked into it,’ announced Alice. ‘It’s perfectly simple. You go and see the GPO telephone manager in Lambeth and apply to have a line installed. It’s not expensive, either,’ she said, forestalling Hardcastle’s next question. ‘What’s more, because you’re an important police officer, they’d probably install it the very next day.’

  ‘How did you find out about all that?’ Hardcastle felt he was fighting a rearguard action.

  ‘I met Mrs Burns in Boxall’s, the newsagents. She had a telephone installed just before Christmas, and she told me all about it and how easy it was.’

  ‘Who’s Mrs Burns?’

  ‘She’s the wife of a station sergeant at Nine Elms, and they live in Lambeth Road, just round the corner from us.’

  ‘You’ve been talking to a station sergeant’s wife about things like that?’ Hardcastle sounded outraged and incredulous that his wife should do such a thing.

  ‘And why shouldn’t I, Ernest? You might be in the police force, but I’m not, and neither is Mrs Burns.’

  ‘What’s for supper?’ asked Hardcastle.

  On Monday morning, Hardcastle was back at Bow Street police court.

  ‘Put up Harold Barton,’ said the clerk of the court.

  Barton, whose appearance accurately portrayed a man who had not slept at all, gazed around Number One Court, his face expressing a combination of awe and fear.

  Hardca
stle stepped into the witness box. ‘Ernest Hardcastle, Divisional Detective Inspector A Division, Your Worship.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Hardcastle?’ The Chief Magistrate fingered his regimental necktie and acknowledged the DDI with a slight inclination of his head.

  ‘Yesterday, Your Worship, Harold Barton was arrested in Oakham in the County of Rutland on a warrant granted by you. He is charged with conspiring with another person or persons, not in custody, of disposing of a corpse with intent to prevent a coroner’s inquest, against the peace.’

  ‘I take it there is more to this matter than meets the eye, Mr Hardcastle.’

  ‘Indeed, Your Worship.’

  ‘In that case, I shall not take a plea. The prisoner is remanded in custody to appear at this court again on Tuesday the third of May at ten o’clock in the forenoon.’

  ‘Now all we’ve got to do is interview Rupert Holroyd, Marriott, and get his side of this fanciful yarn that Barton came up with,’ said Hardcastle as he stepped down from the witness box. But that proved to be more difficult than he had imagined.

  It was late on the Monday afternoon, after Marriott had spent a fruitless hour making numerous calls on the telephone, that he broke the news to Hardcastle.

  ‘When Holroyd appeared before the Bow Street magistrate on the nineteenth of April, he was released on bail of his own recognizance in the sum of twenty-five pounds, sir.’

  ‘Good God! Well, where is he now?’

  ‘Nobody seems to know, sir. He was remanded to appear again on the twenty-third of May, when it was proposed depositions would be taken.’

  ‘And I suppose they’d like me to be there. It would have been nice if they’d told me,’ said Hardcastle sarcastically. ‘Where is Holroyd living, then?’

  ‘The address he gave to the court was the Langham in Portland Place, sir, but when I made enquiries at the hotel, he wasn’t there, never has been, and has not made a booking for any time in the future.’

  ‘And I suppose the court didn’t bother to check whether he was there or not.’