by Graham Ison
The two men were ushered into place by Detective Sergeant Allenby. DI Prosser stepped up so that he was beside the station sergeant.
‘Names?’ The station sergeant dipped his pen in the inkwell. Having recorded the necessary details on the charge sheets, he turned to DI Prosser. ‘What are the charges, sir?’ When the arresting officer was a detective inspector, the station sergeant had to accept that officer’s decision.
‘Armed robbery and furious driving, Sergeant. That’ll do for a start.’
The station sergeant put the charges to Beauchamp and Holroyd, cautioned them and recorded their replies. Then he told the gaoler to put them in separate cells. ‘West London police court tomorrow morning, sir,’ he said to Prosser.
Henry Catto grabbed the pedestal telephone and unhooked the earpiece. ‘Catto.’
‘Henry, it’s Wally Hardcastle. My guv’nor, DI Prosser, nicked your man Holroyd this morning.’
‘What for?’
‘Armed robbery at a bank in Brompton Road, along with a bloke called Beauchamp, another ex-officer. I reckon you can say goodbye to him for at least a ten stretch.’
‘Not if he gets topped for murder, Wally.’
DS Hardcastle laughed. ‘That’d save the taxpayer a few bob in feeding him.’
‘When’s he up?’
‘Ten o’clock tomorrow morning, West London court.’
‘I reckon I’ll see you there, then, along with your old man.’
‘I won’t be there, Henry. It’s not my job.’
Catto finished his conversation, crossed the corridor from the detectives’ office and knocked on the DDI’s door.
‘What is it, Catto?’
‘Holroyd’s been arrested for bank robbery, sir. Up before the stipe at West London tomorrow morning.’
‘Who arrested him?’
‘DI Prosser of the Flying Squad, sir.’
FOURTEEN
Detective Sergeant Marriott could see no great point in he and Hardcastle attending West London police court on the Saturday morning, but the DDI announced that he would be there and ordered his sergeant to accompany him.
After the night’s haul of prostitutes and drunks had been dealt with by the magistrate, Holroyd and Beauchamp appeared in the dock. Brief evidence of their arrest and the reason for it was given by DI Prosser of the Flying Squad.
The stipendiary magistrate made very short work of dealing with them. His view of gentlemen robbers was not improved when he learned that, despite the advice of DI Prosser, the pair had insisted on their former army ranks being put on the charge sheets in the hope that this might afford them some leniency. But if they thought that the stresses and strains of battle would mitigate the inevitable outcome of their arrest, they were mistaken. In point of fact, it had the opposite effect. The magistrate, who wore the regimental tie of the Devonshire Regiment in which he had served as a lieutenant colonel, had been appointed to the Distinguished Service Order for his outstanding bravery while leading his battalion at the Somme. He struck out the military ranks on the charge sheets, an action prompted by the fact that the first battalion of Beauchamp’s former regiment, the Connaught Rangers, had mutinied in India in 1920, and had subsequently been disbanded in 1922.
‘Remanded in custody to appear at this court again on Monday the twenty-third of May. Take them down.’
‘D’you propose to interview Holroyd now, sir, before they remove him to Brixton?’ asked Marriott, as he and Hardcastle moved out to the lobby of the court.
‘No, Marriott, we’ll wait till Monday and then we’ll have a chat with him when he’s nice and settled in his flowery dell.’
Marriott wondered why Hardcastle had insisted on going to West London police court simply to witness Holroyd’s remand in custody. It was not something he would have done in the past; he would have sent Marriott if, in fact, he had sent anyone. Nothing had been gained by his coming here this morning. The remand prison to which Holroyd had been sent could have been discovered simply by telephoning the court inspector. Not for the first time, he had cause to wonder whether Hardcastle was, indeed, becoming too old for the job.
His Majesty’s Prison Brixton was in Jebb Avenue, a turning off Brixton Hill in south-west London.
‘Hello, Mr Hardcastle. Haven’t seen you here lately.’ The gate warder, whose name was Jim Wise, shook hands. ‘To be honest, guv’nor, I thought you’d retired.’ Wise had the appearance of a man who should have retired himself. He was balding and had put on weight since his uniform was issued, so that it strained at the buttons. That, together with his ragged moustache and bushy eyebrows, gave the appearance of someone who was older than his sixty years. Marriott thought that he had been put on gate duty because he no longer possessed the physique to tackle a violent prisoner if that situation ever arose.
Hardcastle laughed. ‘I’ll bet you’ve got a few locked up in here who’d wish I had, Jim.’
‘You ain’t wrong about that, guv’nor,’ said Wise with a laugh that made his not inconsiderable belly wobble up and down. ‘Who d’you want to see this morning?’ Returning to the reception office, he donned a pair of wire-framed spectacles and peered at a large book that rested on the counter in front of him.
‘Rupert Holroyd, Jim, on remand.’
Wise ran his finger down the list of remand prisoners. ‘Oh, the galloping major’s mate,’ he said, glancing back at Hardcastle. ‘Well, I hope he’s still in one piece, guv’nor. Hoity-toity ex-officers don’t go down at all well in here. Too many old sweats who fought in the war have finished up in here.’
‘I know, Jim. I put one or two of ’em in here myself,’ said Hardcastle.
‘What’s more, guv’nor,’ Wise continued, ‘they gave that Beauchamp and Holroyd a bit of a reminder that they wasn’t in the Kate no more, if you know what I mean.’
‘Did you see much action yourself, Jim?’ asked Marriott, recognizing Wise’s three war medals. His brother-in-law, Frank Dobson, was a regular captain in the Middlesex Regiment, having survived four years of trench warfare, and had explained to Marriott how to ‘read’ medal ribbons, particularly the three known as Pip, Squeak and Wilfred.
‘Not really. I was at Ḗtaples.’ Wise pronounced it ‘eat apples’.
‘What were you doing there, Jim?’ Marriott appeared to express a passing interest, but his brother-in-law had told him a few tales about Ḗtaples and what went on there.
‘I was on the staff of the training camp.’ Wise sounded reluctant to admit it; the ‘canaries’, as the staff were perversely known, had the unenviable reputation of being sadistic bullies. ‘It’s just Holroyd you want to see, then, is it, Mr Hardcastle?’ he asked, quickly changing the subject back to the present.
‘Yes, please, Jim. I’m not interested in the bank robbery; that’s the Flying Squad’s job. I want to talk to Holroyd about a couple of dead bodies.’
Wise chuckled again. ‘Now that sounds a bit more like your style, guv’nor.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the availability board. ‘I’ll get one of the lads to take him up to the usual interview room. You know your way, don’t you?’
Rupert Holroyd had a black eye, probably the result of the ‘reminder’ that Wise had mentioned. Although, as a remand prisoner, he had been allowed to keep his own clothes, his suit was now looking a bit shabby. His appearance was not helped by the fact that the prison authorities had deprived him of his braces, and he had no laces in his shoes.
‘I’ve got a complaint to make, Inspector,’ said Holroyd arrogantly, the moment Hardcastle and Marriott entered the interview room.
‘What about?’
‘This.’ Holroyd pointed at his bruised eye. ‘I got beaten up by some of the prisoners.’
‘It’s no good complaining to me. Speak to the prison governor about it.’ Hardcastle turned to the warder who had accompanied Holroyd to the interview room. ‘I’m sure you can arrange for the governor to entertain Captain Holroyd to tea, so’s he can tell him all about his complaint.’
‘I want to talk to you again about two bodies we found at Ditton at the site of your failed garage, Holroyd,’ said Hardcastle. ‘One of which you identified as Guy Stoner.’
‘That’s right. So, what’s the problem?’
‘The problem, as you put it,’ said Hardcastle, is that we’ve arrested your brother-in-law, Harold Barton, in connection with this matter.’
‘You’ve arrested Harry? Whatever for?’ Suddenly, Holroyd’s arrogance left him.
‘At the moment,’ said Marriott, ‘he’s been charged with disposing of two corpses to prevent a coroner’s inquest and is locked up somewhere in this prison. But I dare say my inspector will charge him with murder, along with you, Holroyd.’
‘But that’s outrageous!’ Holroyd’s voice rose in panic, his face had turned a deathly white and he was visibly shaking. ‘Why on earth should you charge Harry with that? He had nothing to do with any bodies. Nor did I.’ It was as much as he could do to get the words out.
‘That’s not what Barton said, Holroyd. He’s given you up.’ Marriott rested his pocketbook on the table. ‘He said that you sent for him and he helped you to cut up the bodies before the pair of you buried them. What’s more, I interviewed your sister, Ethel Barton, and your mother, Winifred Holroyd, and they both failed to confirm that you were in Oakham at all that weekend. Your brother-in-law suggested you were somewhere in Hampshire enjoying a bit of jig-a-jig.’
‘My mother’s gaga,’ said Holroyd, ‘and my bloody sister’s not much better. She was always simple.’
‘What’s your version, then?’ asked Hardcastle cynically. The more he spoke to Holroyd, the less he was inclined to believe anything he said.
‘All right, Inspector, I wasn’t in Oakham. I admit that. As Harold said, I was in Hampshire with a girl.’
‘Name?’ Marriott picked up his pocketbook and took out a pencil.
‘Oh, I say, is that really necessary?’
‘Don’t mess me about, Holroyd,’ said Marriott, who was getting rather annoyed with the man’s pretence of being of a higher class than the two detectives. ‘You were a clerk with the water board before the war. You’re as working-class as the rest of them in here.’
‘Her name is Vinny Quilter.’
‘I suppose you mean Lady Lavinia Quilter, daughter of the Earl of Wilmslow?’ said Marriott mildly.
Holroyd’s mouth fell open. ‘How on earth—?’
‘Never make the mistake of underestimating the police, Holroyd,’ said Hardcastle, lighting his pipe and leaning back in his chair. ‘Not that you’ll have much of an opportunity, because you’ll be going from here via the Old Bailey to the condemned cell.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Holroyd gripped the edges of the table until his knuckles showed white. ‘I didn’t murder anyone. Please, Inspector, ask Vinny Quilter,’ he pleaded desperately. ‘She’ll tell you I was with her that whole weekend.’
‘There’s just one problem with that, Holroyd,’ said Hardcastle, dropping a dead match into the tin lid that served as an ashtray. ‘She’s been reported missing. Did you murder her, too?’
‘Missing? But she can’t be. I saw her three weeks ago. Took her out to dinner actually.’
‘When exactly?’ asked Marriott.
‘It was Monday the twenty-fifth of April.’ Holroyd recalled the date without hesitation.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘It was her birthday. I took her to Kettner’s in Romilly Street for dinner.’
‘How did you get in touch with her?’ Hardcastle was doubtful.
‘I telephoned her.’
‘In that case, you can give Sergeant Marriott the telephone number.’
Holroyd hesitated. ‘Look, Inspector, she doesn’t want her father to know where she is. She told me that she had a falling out with him or, more to the point, with this woman he’s married. She’s called Dolly and she’s twenty years younger than Vinny’s father. Vinny said that her father fell for the woman after hearing her singing “I Wish I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate” at the Chiswick Empire where she was a chorus girl. Anyway, Vinny accused her of going after her father for his title and his money. The upshot was that Dolly and Vinny had a blazing row, and Vinny walked out.’
‘That’s all very fascinating, but will you now give the phone number to Sergeant Marriott?’
‘Yes, but only if you promise not to tell her father where she is.’
‘The only thing I can promise you, Holroyd, is charging you with murder if you don’t come across with that information right now.’
Reluctantly, Holroyd provided a telephone number on the Mayfair exchange.
‘We shall be seeing you again, Holroyd,’ Hardcastle said ominously, as he and Marriott left the prisoner in the capable hands of the duty warder.
‘Remind me, Marriott, who it was who interviewed Lord Wilmslow.’
‘Catto, sir.’
‘Very good. Fetch him in here.’ Hardcastle paused. ‘No, on second thoughts, you go.’
‘Go where, sir?’
‘To see Lady Lavinia. Not that I believe she’ll be there. I think Holroyd is leading us up the garden path. If that’s the case, I’ll charge him and his brother-in-law with murder and be done with it. The lawyers can sort it out.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Marriott was not at all convinced that the Director of Public Prosecutions would be prepared to go to court on the evidence that had been accrued so far. At least, not for murder. But he forbore from saying so, at least until he had seen Lady Lavinia. If, in fact, she was to be found at the address to which the Mayfair telephone number was connected. And that was the next job.
It had not taken Marriott long to discover that the telephone, the number of which Holroyd had been loath to impart, was located in a flat in Tonkins Mews, one of the turnings off Park Street in the heart of Mayfair. He also discovered that the telephone account was in the name of Miss Sarah Carmichael.
The woman who answered the door appeared to be in her mid-twenties, perhaps even a year or two younger. She was wearing a pale-green frock that came to just below the knee and was so straight that it completely disguised her shape.
‘Lady Lavinia Quilter?’ Marriott raised his hat.
‘No, I’m Sarah Carmichael. But Vinny’s here. Do come in.’ The woman ushered Marriott into the tiny hall. ‘Vinny,’ she shouted, ‘there’s a rather gorgeous-looking man here to see you.’ Although fast approaching his forty-fifth birthday, Marriott still retained his chiselled good looks and actually appeared younger than his years would indicate. ‘How long have you kept him a secret, eh, you crafty girl?’
‘Hello. Who are you?’ The woman who entered the hall from a room at the rear stared at Marriott. She was about the same age as Sarah Carmichael and dressed in similar fashion, save that her dress was yellow. ‘Oh God, have we met? Was it that champagne party at Boodle’s last Saturday? I’m afraid I got a bit squiffy that night.’
‘I doubt it, Lady Lavinia. I’m Detective Sergeant Charles Marriott.’
‘Daddy’s sent you, hasn’t he?’ Her question was almost an accusation, and her mood changed in an instant.
‘Your father has most certainly not sent me. As a matter of fact, I’ve not met him.’ Marriott was being truthful; it was Catto who had interviewed the Earl of Wilmslow. Although the Winchester City Police had been informed that Lavinia was ‘missing’, they had apparently done little or nothing about it.
‘Oh, sorry. Well, we can’t stand here. Come into the drawing room.’ Lavinia glanced at her wristwatch. ‘I say, it’s cocktail hour. Join us in a Manhattan, Sergeant, and tell me what you wanted to see me about.’
‘Not for me, if you don’t mind.’
‘Oh, of course – mustn’t drink on duty, eh?’
‘It’s not that, Lady Lavinia,�
� said Marriott. ‘It’s a trifle early for me.’
‘Oh, do stop all that “Lady Lavinia” nonsense. For goodness’ sake, call me Vinny.’
Marriott and Sarah Carmichael sat down while Lavinia busied herself at the cocktail cabinet. With a panache that betrayed her expertise, she poured rye whiskey and red vermouth into a cocktail shaker and added a dash of Angostura bitters.
‘These glasses are supposed to be chilled,’ she said, as she poured the concoction into them, ‘but I can’t be bothered. Now, Sergeant, what was it you wanted to see me about?’ Lavinia sat down in the armchair opposite Marriott and took a sip of her cocktail.
‘I’ll get straight to the point. Did you spend the weekend of the eleventh to the fourteenth of March this year with Captain Rupert Holroyd at your father’s country seat in Kings Worthy?’
Lavinia was quite unabashed at the implication of impropriety. ‘No, I’ve never heard of him. I spent the weekend with Guy Stoner. He was a captain in the war. Anyway, who is this Holroyd chap?’
‘Can you describe the Captain Guy Stoner you spent the weekend with?’
‘Tall and well-built,’ said Lavinia without hesitation. ‘But he had a bushy moustache that tickled terribly when he kissed me. We were talking about getting married at one time, but it turned out that his uncle was a clergyman, and I’ll bet he’d have wanted Guy to have a church wedding, although Guy didn’t say as much. Well, Sergeant, that’s not for me, I’m afraid. When I get married, it’s got to be on the French Riviera with lots of sunshine and lots of champagne.’
‘How long had you known this Guy Stoner?’
‘About three months. We met at a nightclub called …’ Lavinia turned to her friend. ‘What was it called, Sarah?’
‘The Twilight Cabaret Club. It’s in Brewer Street.’
‘Is it? I wouldn’t know.’ Lavinia gave a gay laugh. ‘Thank God for cabbies. They know where everything is.’
‘And you’ve never heard of Rupert Holroyd?’
‘No, never.’ Lavinia crossed the room and refilled her glass. She turned so that she was leaning against the cocktail cabinet. ‘You haven’t explained what this is all about.’