by Graham Ison
‘Well now, Mr Hardcastle, I’ve received disturbing reports that you’ve been interfering in matters that are rightly the preserve of my Branch.’ Although Quinn spoke with a soft Mayo accent, his voice, nonetheless, conveyed an element of menace.
‘Not intentionally, sir, I assure you,’ said Hardcastle, even though he was aware that his tenacious pursuit of Parker’s murderer might have been ruffling some of Scotland Yard’s feathers.
‘Mrs Mavis Parker of Canbury Park Road, Kingston upon Thames,’ said Quinn.
Hardcastle did not immediately reply, thinking that Quinn was about to continue. ‘Yes, sir, I’m investigating the murder of her husband,’ he said eventually.
‘I’m well aware of that, Mr Hardcastle, but why have your men been following her about?’
‘When a woman’s husband is murdered, sir, I’ve often found that the widow might’ve had something to do with it. I was hoping that she might lead us to the killer.’ Hardcastle paused. ‘If, of course, she was not the murderess herself.’ He was at a loss to know how Quinn knew of the observations he had set up. But it was not long before he found out.
‘D’you really think that Mrs Parker is capable of shooting a man in the back of the head, tying him up in a sugar sack and throwing him in the river, Inspector?’ Quinn asked sarcastically.
‘Perhaps not, sir.’ Hardcastle was taken aback that the head of Special Branch knew so much about the murder of Ronald Parker.
‘No, perhaps not indeed. Those two idiots you sent to carry out surveillance on her last Sunday morning could’ve seriously compromised a very important operation in which officers of this Branch and MI5 are involved. Standing about, openly writing down the details of Mortimer’s car number plate and his description was just about the most crass piece of police work I’ve come across.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking, sir, how did you know about that?’ Hardcastle was thoroughly shaken by Quinn’s continuing revelations.
‘Your men were being watched, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Quinn, ‘but they were too busy engaging in their amateurish antics to realize that they, too, were under surveillance. You should familiarize yourself with the Latin tag Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Loosely translated,’ he continued, seeing the look of bewilderment on Hardcastle’s face, ‘Who will watch the watchers? Or, as I’ve heard some translate it: Big fleas have little fleas on their backs to bite ’em, and little fleas have smaller fleas, and so on, ad infinitum.’
‘I didn’t realize, sir,’ said Hardcastle lamely. There was little else he could say in the face of Quinn’s blunt assessment of the A Division officers’ shortcomings.
‘Obviously. Well, I can tell you this: throughout your men’s cack-handed performance they were being observed by an officer from MI5. He was the same agent, a Captain Gilbert Stroud incidentally, whom another of your officers followed all the way from his home in Kingston to his office in Waterloo House.’
‘But I still have to find the murderer of Ronald Parker, sir,’ Hardcastle protested mildly.
‘I’m aware of that, Mr Hardcastle, but some things take precedence even over murder. Lawrence Mortimer has been under surveillance by officers of Special Branch and MI5 for some considerable time.’
‘I see, sir.’
‘I’m not sure you do, Mr Hardcastle.’ Quinn sighed and opened the dossier in front of him. ‘I suppose I’d better acquaint you with the details of the operation, in the strictest confidence, you understand,’ he said, staring at Hardcastle with a forbidding expression on his face, daring him not to breathe a word of what he was about to hear.
‘Yes, sir,’ muttered Hardcastle.
‘There is little doubt that Mortimer is a German intelligence agent, but we need more information before he can be arrested,’ Quinn continued. ‘In fact, we need to catch him in flagrante delicto. We now know that he was sent here to garner information about British aeroplanes, and those produced by the Sopwith Aviation Company in particular. But he’s only recently begun to take an interest and he befriended Mrs Parker in order to achieve his goal. Mrs Parker quite properly informed her works manager, a Mr Quilter, and he in turn informed us. As a result, Mrs Parker has been working closely with MI5 and ourselves, and has been feeding Mortimer false information that purports to be about prototype aeroplanes.’
‘Good grief?!’ exclaimed Hardcastle, and after a pause, added, ‘There is the question of the letter, sir.’
‘What letter?’
‘A letter was sent from the Ministry of National Service informing Ronald Parker that he was exempt from military service. But it looks as though Parker didn’t get it.’
‘I really can’t explain that, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Quinn. ‘We wanted Parker out of the way in case he got too interested in what his wife was doing. Apparently, he was one of these inquisitive fellows who wanted to know everything his wife was doing. Consequently when Parker announced that he was going to Holland it solved the problem. That he didn’t receive the letter was fortuitous.’ He paused. ‘Of course, we didn’t foresee that he’d be murdered, but the result is the same: he’s out of the way.’
‘So, where does that leave me with regard to his murder, sir?’ Hardcastle was a hardened and experienced detective, but even he was astounded that the murder of Parker was regarded as a satisfactory solution to the sudden and unforeseen problems of a Special Branch investigation.
‘You may continue with your enquiries, Mr Hardcastle, but neither you nor your officers are to go anywhere near Lawrence Mortimer or Mavis Parker again. Is that clearly understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Hardcastle, wondering how he was to conduct a murder enquiry without speaking to the victim’s widow or to a man he regarded as the principal suspect.
‘To that end, Mr Hardcastle, I am assigning Detective Inspector Drew to your enquiry in order that he might assist you in avoiding any accidental contact that might further jeopardize this operation.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Hardcastle had the distinct feeling that Drew was being attached to his enquiry for the sole purpose of keeping a careful eye on everything he did. And to report it to his chief.
‘That’s all,’ said Quinn, closing the dossier.
Aubrey Drew was waiting outside Superintendent Quinn’s office when Hardcastle emerged.
‘I understand that I’m to be attached to your enquiry, sir. Is there anything in particular you want me to do?’
‘Yes, Mr Drew, make sure you keep out of my bloody way,’ snapped Hardcastle. It was unfair that his fury at Quinn’s treatment of him should be visited on Drew, but he was still seething at having been spoken to like a trainee detective.
‘Come in the office, Marriott, now!’ bellowed Hardcastle, as he passed the door to the detectives’ office.
‘Sir?’ Marriott hurried after the DDI.
‘Mr Drew has been attached to us for the duration of our enquiry into the murder of Ronald Parker.’
‘Why’s that, sir?’ Marriott was completely mystified at this latest twist.
‘I’m not allowed to tell you, Marriott. It seems that the likes of you and me ain’t to be trusted. However, now that we’ve got time on our hands, we’ll take an interest in this here Vincent Powers what’s taken a fancy to Daisy Benson.’
‘Is there anything I can do in that connection, sir?’ asked Drew. He had a high regard for Hardcastle and was embarrassed that Superintendent Quinn had put him in the difficult position of virtually monitoring every movement that the DDI made. It was made no easier that Hardcastle was senior to him in rank.
‘Come to think of it, Mr Drew, it so happens there is.’ Hardcastle explained what was known so far of both Daisy Benson and Vincent Powers. ‘I should think that you’re quite good at passing yourself off as a stage-door Johnny, Mr Drew. I’d be obliged if you’d see fit to make a few enquiries at the Alhambra Palace in Leicester Square and see what’s known of the man.’
‘I’ll certainly do what I can, sir.’ Although such enquiries were out
side his remit, Drew felt that he had to make some contribution to Hardcastle’s enquiry, if only to placate him. ‘I’ll get on to it straight away, sir.’
Once Drew had left, Hardcastle invited Marriott to take a seat.
‘Now that Mr Drew’s out of our hair for a bit, Marriott, m’boy, I can tell you what’s what.’ And despite Quinn’s caveat about secrecy, Hardcastle proceeded to tell his sergeant all that he had learned from the Special Branch chief, being careful to leave out those parts of the conversation that had left the DDI feeling like a complete Dogberry.
‘That sort of puts the kibosh on our enquiries, guv’nor,’ said Marriott. ‘How can we possibly find out who killed Parker without talking to his missus?’
‘There are ways and means, m’boy,’ said Hardcastle mysteriously. ‘In the meantime, we’ll adjourn to the Red Lion for a pint and a fourpenny cannon. I’ve got a nasty taste in my mouth that I need to get rid of.’
It was four o’clock when Aubrey Drew returned to Cannon Row police station.
‘I had a very interesting discussion with the stage-door keeper at the Alhambra, sir. However, Powers isn’t there any longer.’
‘Take a seat, Mr Drew, and tell me what you’ve found out.’ Hardcastle reached forward and took his pipe out of the ashtray.
‘It would seem that Vincent Powers is a South African, but he was not at all liked by the rest of the cast. The play is called The Bing Boys on Broadway and I was told that Powers was understudying George Robey, but seemed to think that he should’ve been treated as if he were the star. As a matter of fact, the stage-door keeper described Powers as a pompous arse. From what I could gather, he has only been in this country for a matter of weeks. At least, that’s when he first appeared in the show. But no one seemed to know where he’d come from, other than to suggest it was probably South Africa, or precisely when.’
‘You said he was no longer at the Alhambra, Mr Drew. Why is that?’
‘According to my information, sir,’ said Drew doubtfully, ‘and I have to admit that it’s somewhat tenuous, his first appearance as Robey’s understudy was in a Wednesday matinee. But he wasn’t a patch on Robey and was booed off the stage. The management had to give the audience its money back.’
‘Not surprising, Mr Drew,’ said Hardcastle. ‘They call George Robey the Prime Minister of Mirth and to coin an apt phrase, he’d be a hard act to follow.’
‘Frankly, sir, I have a problem believing that story. It was, I suspect, second-hand backstage tittle-tattle.’
‘You’re probably right, Mr Drew. It seems unlikely that a man could arrive out of the blue, so to speak, and straightaway land a part as George Robey’s understudy. Did anyone know if Powers got another part anywhere after he was sacked?’
‘No, sir, but I’ve got one or two contacts in the theatrical world and I’ll see what I can find out.’
‘Good, but make it sooner rather than later, eh?’
The following morning found Hardcastle devouring his usual gargantuan breakfast without which, he claimed, he could not face a day’s work. Despite the shortages occasioned by the war, Alice Hardcastle still managed to serve him two fried eggs, several rashers of bacon, a few pieces of fried bread and a couple of sausages. This was followed by two slices of toast and marmalade, washed down with three cups of tea. Hardcastle half suspected that such supplies were made available to his wife because she was married to a senior police officer, but he thought it unwise to enquire too deeply into such matters.
Breakfast was interrupted by a clatter from the hall as the morning newspaper was pushed through the letter box.
‘About time,’ muttered Hardcastle, rising from the table. He walked into the hall and returned with a copy of the Daily Mail. ‘That paper boy gets later every day. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’ He continued to grumble until settling himself at the table again.
‘I’m very glad I don’t work for you, Ernest Hardcastle,’ said Alice. ‘Do you carry on like that all day at your police station? If you do, I feel sorry for the men who have the misfortune to work for you.’
Hardcastle adopted a stoic indifference to his wife’s comments, knowing that it could develop into an argument he could not win, and propped the newspaper against a bottle of tomato ketchup.
‘Mind you don’t knock that bottle over, Ernie. You haven’t put the cap on, and as the price of it has gone up to one and tenpence a bottle, I can’t afford to waste any.’
‘It says here that we fired eighty-five tons of phosgene gas near St Quentin and killed two hundred and fifty Germans,’ said Hardcastle, studiously avoiding any discussion about what he regarded as domestic trivia. ‘That’ll teach ’em. Mind you, now that the Russians have packed it in, the Germans are sending all their troops from the eastern front to the west. Still, now we’ve got the Americans on our side, they’ll soon finish off the Hun.’ Hardcastle had no idea, however, that the following day would see the start of a massive German counter-attack on the Somme that would result in the enemy pushing forward four and a half miles and capturing 21,000 British troops. He folded the newspaper and took it with him into the hall. Donning his hat and coat and picking up his umbrella, he pecked his wife on the cheek. ‘See you tonight, love.’
Alice heard the front door slam with a feeling of relief. Her husband was always in an irascible mood when he had a difficult murder to solve. What she did not know was that Hardcastle was still smarting from Superintendent Quinn’s condescending and critical remarks of the previous day.
Hardcastle’s mood had not lightened by the time he arrived at the tram stop. If anything, it had been worsened by the lateness of the tram – fifteen minutes – and the surliness of its conductor when Hardcastle complained about the service.
‘You might not have noticed, guv’nor,’ the conductor had said, ‘but there’s a bloody war on.’
Alighting at Clock Tower, better known to the world as Big Ben, Hardcastle marched down Cannon Row and into the police station.
‘All correct, sir,’ said the station officer, as the DDI swept in.
‘Anything been put in the crime book overnight?’ Hardcastle asked.
‘Yes, sir. A man was arrested attempting to break into one of the houses in Lower Belgrave Street last night. He was spotted on top of the portico by a patrolling PC.’
‘Good,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Anything else?’
‘Not one for the crime book, sir, but a man, name of George Huggins, was caught in the grounds of Buckingham Palace. The Buck House inspector took the usual action under the Lunacy Act and deemed him of unsound mind.’
‘Quite right,’ said Hardcastle. It was standard police practice to deal with such trespassers in that way, rather than generating unwanted publicity for the Royal Family by suggesting that intruders were potential assassins.
‘Huggins will appear before the justices in lunacy in three days’ time,’ continued the station officer. ‘He reckoned he’d made a mistake and thought he was breaking into one of the big houses in Grosvenor Gardens.’
‘Well, he was right, wasn’t he? You’ve quite made my day, Skipper,’ said Hardcastle, and was still chuckling when he arrived at the top of the stairs.
‘Good morning, sir.’ Detective Inspector Drew was waiting outside Hardcastle’s office door.
‘Good morning, Mr Drew. Come in and take a seat. What news?’
‘I’ve found out a little more about Vincent Powers, sir. As I’d anticipated, he wasn’t an understudy to George Robey at all, but merely had a non-speaking walk-on part. And, as I thought, the story about the audience being given its money back because of Powers’ poor performance was all my eye and Betty Martin. The truth of the matter is that the safety curtain jammed and the performance had to be cancelled.’
‘Yes, that’s a much more likely reason,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Why was he sacked, then? I presume he did get sacked.’
‘Indeed he was, sir. Apparently he got a bit fresh with one of the girls in the chorus and s
he complained to the producer. The producer told Powers that extras were two a penny and showed him the door.’
‘Seems our Vincent Powers is something of a ladies’ man, Mr Drew.’
‘So it would seem, sir. However,’ continued Drew, ‘I spoke to my contact at The Stage, the acting profession’s trade periodical, but they’ve no record of Powers having placed an advertisement with the paper. It’s the sort of thing that a resting actor will do, especially if he arrives from abroad. In fact, no one in the acting business seems to have heard of him, apart from the people at the Alhambra. Anyway, my contact has promised to let me know if he hears anything.’
‘Thank you, Mr Drew. It sounds to me as though this man is nothing more than someone who puts these tales about in order to impress a woman. But he has a large house on Kingston Hill, an expensive motor car, and employs servants. If the stage is not his main source of income, I wonder where his money comes from. I think that Marriott and I will have another word with Daisy Benson about Powers and then waste no more time on him.’
FIFTEEN
‘Why are we so interested in this Vincent Powers, sir?’ asked Marriott as he and Hardcastle left Kingston railway station. ‘Surely he’s just another of Daisy Benson’s clients.’
‘Very likely, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, as he engaged a cab from the rank outside the station, ‘but anybody who was acquainted with Ronald Parker, however loosely, might just lead us to his murderer. And Daisy, it seems, knew both Parker and Powers; that’s the connection. It’s one of the principles of criminal investigation to tie up loose ends. I’d’ve thought you would’ve known that, Marriott.’
‘Yes, I see, sir,’ said Marriott, following the DDI into the cab. It was yet another of his chief’s little homilies on murder that he received from time to time. But he still could not see the point of pursuing Powers. However, he would be the first to admit that Hardcastle’s enigmatic whims often produced a satisfactory result.
