Hardcastle's Obsession

by Graham Ison

  Hardcastle took the necklace from a drawer and pushed it across the desk. ‘I know Sergeant Marriott showed you this earlier on, but are you quite sure you’ve never seen it before, Ruby?’

  Ruby Hoskins picked up the necklace, running it lovingly through her fingers. ‘Not that I can recall,’ she said.

  ‘You didn’t see Annie Kelly ever wearing it?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t mind having that round me neck and that’s a fact, but it looks too bloody expensive for the likes of us. What’s it worth.’

  ‘About three hundred and fifty sovs,’ volunteered Marriott.

  ‘Cor blimey!’ exclaimed Ruby. ‘D’you reckon some trick give it her, like this toff what she was seeing?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Marriott.

  ‘So do I,’ scoffed Ruby. ‘I’d love to find a trick what’d give me something like that. Some hopes.’

  ‘All right, Ruby,’ said Hardcastle, taking back the necklace. ‘As soon as you see Sarah Cotton, tell her I want a word with her. I don’t want to go looking for her, but let her know she’s not in any trouble.’

  ‘Righto, Mr H.’ Ruby turned to the handsome Marriott and winked. ‘Ta for the fag, mister,’ she said.

  ‘One other thing, Ruby. Did you ever hear Annie mention a man called Seamus Riley?’

  Ruby frowned. ‘No, I don’t think so. Why? D’you think it was him what done for her?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ruby. I’m afraid he could be one of many she went with.’ Hardcastle glanced at his watch as Ruby Hoskins swept out of the office. ‘It’s gone ten o’clock, Marriott,’ he said. ‘I think we’ll call it a day. See you first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the grateful Marriott as he rose to leave. He had thought that Hardcastle was about to embark on what Parliament called an all-night sitting. Not that it would have been the first time.

  At nine o’clock on Tuesday morning Detective Sergeant Wood was keeping observation in Vauxhall Bridge Road. He had stationed himself by a tram stop on the opposite side of the road from the offices of Naylor Clothiers Ltd, and, trying to look nonchalant, was reading a newspaper.

  At ten o’clock precisely a yellow Rolls Royce Silver Ghost drew up outside the offices. For a moment or two, Wood admired the beautiful vehicle and knew, from his interest in motor cars, that it would have cost somewhere in the order of twelve hundred pounds. It was a sum that the detective sergeant could not even begin to visualize, equal as it was to at least ten years of his pay.

  A chauffeur leaped from the driving seat, opened the passenger door of the limousine, and doffed his cap, all in one practised movement.

  The man who alighted from the car had a moustache similar to that of the late Earl Kitchener, and carried a cane. Although Wood was able to see that he wore an albert, it was not possible for him to see any device that might have been attached to it, but overall the man fitted the description given to Hardcastle by Ruby Hoskins.

  Waiting until the man had entered the offices, Wood folded his newspaper and strolled across the road.

  ‘Lovely car,’ he said to the chauffeur, surveying the vehicle with an admiring gaze. ‘Must be a pleasure to drive.’

  ‘It is, mate. Unfortunately it doesn’t get to be driven far. Needs a good blow out up somewhere like the Great North Road. Not that the boss likes me going too fast.’

  ‘Don’t you have to drive your guv’nor far, then?’

  ‘Far?’ The chauffeur scoffed. ‘I don’t call bringing him from Grosvenor Gardens to Vauxhall Bridge Road every morning and back again every night much of a journey. And of course, he goes to the Carlton Club for lunch. Every bloody day,’ he added with a sigh. ‘But on Wednesdays he tells me to clear off of a night. He says he’s going somewhere and he’ll take a taxi home because he don’t know what time he’ll finish. Then every weekend it’s down to Kingsley Hall of a Friday and back again Monday, regular as clockwork. Oh, but he did go to Brighton once for a dirty weekend.’

  ‘Could be worse, mate,’ said Wood with a laugh. ‘You could be driving a bus up to the front line in Flanders.’

  ‘Yeah, true enough,’ said the chauffeur. ‘Got to be grateful for small mercies, I suppose. Anyhow, better go and fill her up,’ he added, starting the engine. ‘This old lady drinks more petrol than my old man drank beer, and that’s saying something, believe me.’

  As the Rolls Royce drove away, Wood took a note of the registration mark, and made his way back to Cannon Row.

  Hardcastle listened carefully to Wood’s report. ‘You’ve checked the registration, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, sir. The car is registered to Sir Royston Naylor at this address in Grosvenor Gardens,’ said Wood, handing a piece of paper to the DDI.

  ‘Right. Get one of the DCs down to Victoria to find this here Sarah Cotton, and bring her back here. I told that Ruby Hoskins I wanted to see her, but nothing’s come of it; I suppose she hasn’t been about. I’ve hatched a little plan to get Sir Royston Naylor into my police station so that I can have a little chat with him.’

  ‘D’you reckon Naylor’s your man, sir?’

  ‘He sounds like what I call a promising runner, Wood.’

  ‘D’you think this Sarah Cotton will be there at this time of day, sir?’ asked Wood. ‘It’s a bit early. In my experience tarts don’t usually start work before about eight in the evening.’

  ‘That used to be the case before this scrap with Fritz started, but not any more. If there’s a troop train in the offing these trollops won’t miss a chance to make a few bob, morning, noon or night. And well done, Wood,’ said Hardcastle, for him a rare word of praise.

  It had gone two o’clock that same afternoon before DC Catto entered the DDI’s office.

  ‘I’ve got Sarah Cotton outside, sir.’

  ‘I’ll see her directly, Catto, but when I’ve finished talking to her I want you to follow her. Find out where she goes, who she meets and where she lives. Stick to her like glue, but be careful not to let her spot you because she knows what you look like. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But what if she picks up a trick, sir?’

  ‘You still follow her, lad. I thought I’d made that perfectly clear.’ Hardcastle sighed with exasperation. ‘Everywhere she goes, you go. That don’t mean you have to go into her room and watch her at work, of course.’ The DDI smiled wryly. ‘That’s one occasion you can use your discretion. If you’ve got any,’ he added caustically. ‘Now send her in. And send in Sergeant Marriott, too.’

  ‘Sit down, Miss Cotton,’ said Hardcastle, once Marriott had joined them.

  Undoubtedly in her twenties, Sarah Cotton had the unmistakable bearing of being superior to the average prostitute, although she had affected apparel suited to her role of streetwalker. Furthermore, Hardcastle subsequently learned that Sarah Cotton was not her real name.

  ‘What d’you want with me, Inspector?’ Sarah raised her head in an attitude of defiance. Although she contrived a cockney accent there was an underlying suggestion that such a mode of speech was alien to her natural way of talking.

  ‘How well d’you know Sir Royston Naylor?’ asked Hardcastle, seeing no point in wasting time.

  The DDI’s direct approach disconcerted the young prostitute, and for a moment or two she said nothing. ‘I, er, I’ve met him once or twice,’ she said eventually.

  ‘You mean he’s one of your tricks, Sarah.’

  ‘If you like. Why d’you want to know?’

  ‘And it’s usually on a Wednesday that he picks you up,’ said Hardcastle, making another direct statement based on what Naylor’s chauffeur had told DS Wood.

  ‘Yes, it ’as been the case in the past,’ replied Sarah cautiously. ‘But why d’you want to know about ’im? And why ’ave you brung me in ’ere?’ she asked, deliberately dropping an aspirate or two.

  Hardcastle smiled at Sarah’s attempt to do what character actresses called a ‘common’. ‘To give you a word of warning, Sarah,’ he said. ‘Be careful who you go w
ith.’ And with that enigmatic word of advice, he told Marriott to see Sarah Cotton out of the station.

  ‘By the way, sir,’ said Marriott when he had seen Sarah Cotton on her way. ‘I showed her the necklace, but she said she’d never seen it before.’

  ‘No more than I expected, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But it’s got to belong to someone.’

  ‘Perhaps it was the property of one of the victims of the bomb, sir, rather than our murder victim.’

  ‘Maybe, Marriott, maybe,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but I don’t think any of them living at Washbourne Street could’ve afforded a bit of tomfoolery worth three hundred and fifty quid. And now,’ he added, pulling out his watch and staring at it, ‘I think it’s time we took a turn down to Greenwich High Street, and see what this milkman friend of Annie Kelly’s has to say for himself. What was his name?’

  ‘Seamus Riley, sir.’

  ‘So it was. Sounds Irish.’ Hardcastle grabbed his coat, hat and umbrella and made for the door. ‘Well, come along, Marriott, don’t dally.’

  Marriott rushed into the detectives’ office, seized his hat and coat, and followed Hardcastle down the stairs.

  A man dressed in a blue and white striped apron and a straw boater was standing behind the counter of the dairy when Hardcastle and Marriott entered.

  ‘A very good afternoon to you, gentlemen, and what can I do for you today?’

  ‘We’re looking for Seamus Riley,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Oh, are you indeed, and what might you be wanting with him?’

  ‘We’re police officers,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Cyril Underwood, sir, but I’m afraid you’re out of luck. He’s gone and joined the Riffs.’

  ‘That’s a tribe in Morocco,’ said Hardcastle, displaying another aspect of his randomly gathered historical knowledge. ‘What’s he doing there, Mr Underwood?’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s where he is, sir, but it’s what he called the Royal Irish Fusiliers. It seems that Riffs is their nickname, so he said.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hardcastle, irritated that he had been caught out. ‘And when did he join these here Riffs?’

  Underwood thought about that. ‘Must’ve been all of five or six months ago, sir.’

  ‘And where did he live, before he joined the army?’

  ‘Now that I can’t tell you, sir. I do know he was a bachelor gay, but I’ve no idea where he was staying. I do remember him telling me that his mother and father were both dead. And he used to tell a story about a brother in the Royal Flying Corps who won the Victoria Cross, but was later shot down by the Red Baron. But I reckon he was bragging. You know what the Irish are like for spinning a yarn.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Underwood,’ said Hardcastle, furious at having wasted a journey. ‘It looks like we’re on our way back to Colonel Frobisher at Horse Guards again,’ he added, turning to Marriott.

  Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at Horse Guards just as the assistant provost marshal was about to leave.

  ‘You’ve just caught me, Inspector,’ said Frobisher. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m interested in a man called Seamus Riley, Colonel. I’m told he joined the Royal Irish Fusiliers about six months ago.’

  Frobisher burst out laughing. ‘Given that it’s an Irish regiment, Mr Hardcastle, there must be a hundred Seamus Rileys in the Riffs, but I’ll see what I can do for you. Have you any idea where he lived before he enlisted?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Colonel. All I can tell you is that he was a delivery man at a dairy in Greenwich before joining the army, and he claimed that his mother and father were both dead.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you that it might take some time. The regimental records are kept in Dublin and, as I suggested, it won’t be easy to track down this particular Seamus Riley. I’ll let you know as soon as I have something.’

  ‘There was one other thing, Colonel,’ said Hardcastle. ‘The dairyman who employed Riley said that Riley claimed to have a brother who won the Victoria Cross while serving with the RFC, but was later shot down by the Red Baron.’

  ‘Ah, Manfred von Richtofen, the scourge of the Royal Flying Corps,’ said Frobisher. ‘That’ll be easy to check, but I have to say that I’ve not heard of a Riley who got the VC.’

  At nine o’clock the following morning, Catto knocked on Hardcastle’s open door and hovered.

  ‘Don’t stand there like you’re waiting for a tram, Catto. For God’s sake come in.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Catto moved closer to Hardcastle’s desk.

  ‘Well?’ barked the DDI.

  ‘It’s about Sarah Cotton, sir.’

  ‘Well, of course it is, Catto. Get on with it.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I followed her as directed—’

  ‘Just cut to the chase, Catto.’ Hardcastle took his pipe out of his mouth and stared at the luckless DC.

  Catto took a deep breath. ‘She hung about on the forecourt of Victoria station until ten o’clock, sir, but she didn’t pick up any tricks. One or two swaddies approached her, but she sent them packing. She seems to be a bit choosy for a tom.’ Sensing that the DDI was about to utter a word of criticism, Catto hurried on. ‘Then she took a taxi, sir, and I followed in another cab. She let herself into a house in Cadogan Place with her own key.’

  ‘Did she, indeed?’ Hardcastle re-lit his pipe, and sat back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face. ‘And did she go in by the front door, or down the area steps into the servants’ hall?’

  ‘In the front door, sir,’ replied Catto, failing to understand why Hardcastle had posed the question.

  ‘And presumably you’ve checked the voters’ register to see who lives there.’

  Catto knew that would be the DDI’s next question. ‘Yes, sir. It’s a Lady Sarah Millard and Lieutenant Colonel Hugo Millard. He’s shown as an absentee voter, sir. I suppose he’s at the Front.’

  ‘All right, lad. Ask Sergeant Marriott to see me. And well done.’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’ Catto grinned at this rare word of praise and hurried back to the detectives’ office, delighted his ordeal was over.

  ‘There’s more to Sarah Cotton than meets the eye,’ said Hardcastle when Marriott entered. ‘From what Catto’s found out it looks as though she ain’t Sarah Cotton at all, but Lady Sarah Millard.’ And he went on to relate what Catto had discovered.

  ‘But surely a titled lady wouldn’t be hawking her mutton round Victoria, sir.’ Marriott was astounded at the possibility.

  ‘Nothing would surprise me these days, Marriott. It’s this damned war,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Fetch Wood and Wilmot in here. I’ve a job for them, seeing as how it’s Wednesday.’

  ‘You wanted us, sir?’ DS Wood and DC Wilmot stood in front of Hardcastle’s desk.

  ‘Yes. First of all, I want Ruby Hoskins brought in here as soon as possible. Once you’ve done that you can stand by for further orders.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Wood who, as a sergeant, was the senior of the two.

  At seven o’clock, Wood showed Ruby Hoskins into Hardcastle’s office.

  ‘You want me to catch whoever murdered Annie Kelly, don’t you, Ruby?’ said Hardcastle as the young prostitute was about to protest at being brought to the police station yet again.

  ‘Course I do, Mr ’Ardcastle,’ said the girl.

  ‘Then listen carefully, lass. This is what I want you to do.’

  When Hardcastle had finished, Ruby Hoskins grinned broadly. ‘It’ll be a pleasure, Mr ’Ardcastle, and that’s no error,’ she said.

  ‘D’you reckon the other girls will be willing to play along?’

  ‘You can bet your last brass farthing on it, guv’nor. In fact, it’ll be a job stopping them. They can be very nasty when the mood takes a hold of ’em.’

  ‘Good. Well, I’m relying on you, Ruby.’

  Hardcastle sent for Wood and Wilmot again.

  ‘Get yourselves down to Victoria station and keep an
eye on the toms there. With any luck, Sir Royston Naylor will show up and proposition Sarah Cotton. Once that happens, this is what I want you to do.’ The DDI went on to explain what he had arranged with Ruby Hoskins, and what he required of Wood and Wilmot. ‘You’d better take Catto with you, Wood. He knows what Sarah Cotton looks like. But once he’s pointed her out to you, send him back here. I don’t want him hanging about and making a Mons of things.’

  SEVEN

  Detective Sergeant Wood and Detective Constable Wilmot had been standing beneath the portico of the Victoria Palace Theatre since eight o’clock. It was a vantage point from which they had a good view of the prostitutes gathered on the corner of Wilton Road.

  Most of the women were chatting noisily among themselves, and from time to time glancing expectantly towards the railway station. Presumably they had heard of the imminent arrival of a troop train. But DS Wood, being a resourceful officer, had checked with the railway police, and learned that one was due to come in at nine o’clock. He hoped that Naylor would arrive on the scene before then, otherwise there was a danger that the women would scatter in search of soldiers.

  He need not have worried, however. At a quarter to nine the two detectives’ patience was rewarded. With his cane tap-tapping the pavement, the figure of Sir Royston Naylor strolled nonchalantly towards the assembled women from the direction of St James’s Park. Without further ado, he made straight for Sarah Cotton and began to talk to her. From what the chauffeur had told him yesterday morning, Wood guessed that Naylor had probably dined at the Carlton Club; that was certainly the direction from which he had come. Not that it mattered where he had been.

  There was an immediate uproar as the prostitutes surrounded Naylor and Sarah Cotton and began shouting abuse. Completely taken aback by the sudden onslaught, Naylor dropped his walking stick – it bore a knob shaped like the head of a dog – and attempted to distance himself from the coarse screaming of the aggressive women encircling him.

  As Hardcastle had hoped, Ruby Hoskins appointed herself ringleader. ‘’Ere, you leave her alone, mate. Sarah don’t want no truck with you,’ she cried, and started to belabour Naylor with her umbrella. Sarah Cotton, who had not been made privy to Hardcastle’s plan, appeared utterly bemused by the sudden furore that had developed around her. She took a step back intent upon removing herself from the unseemly fracas, but a couple of the other girls made sure she did not escape, and pushed her back towards the centre of the contrived disturbance.