Hardcastle's Obsession

by Graham Ison

  ‘Get away from me, you whore,’ yelled Naylor in panic, as he tried to defend himself against Ruby’s blows. He then made the mistake of pushing her away, accidentally putting his hand on her breast as he did so.

  ‘’Ere, did you see that?’ screeched Ruby to her mates. ‘He tried to touch me up. It’s an assault, that’s what it is. Fetch a copper; I want ’im nicked.’ She poked Naylor in the chest. ‘You’re a bloody pervert, mate, that’s what you are.’

  Seven or eight of the prostitutes encircled Naylor and began to pummel him with their fists, while others shouted at him to leave Ruby alone.

  ‘I think it’s time we broke it up, Fred,’ said Wood, smothering a laugh, and he and DC Wilmot ran across the road. ‘We’re police officers,’ he shouted, as he and his partner drew closer to the warring crowd. ‘Now then, now then, what’s going on?’ he demanded.

  ‘All right, ladies, leave him be. It’s the law. They’ll take care of him,’ shouted Ruby, who knew what was to happen next. ‘This man assaulted me, officer,’ she said as the policemen drew within earshot. ‘He grabbed hold of me tits.’

  ‘I did nothing of the sort,’ protested Naylor loudly. ‘It was the other way round. That common little tart attacked me.’

  It was a statement that brought forth a further battery of insults directed at Naylor.

  ‘Common little tarts, are we?’ shouted one girl. ‘But you couldn’t wait to have it up with one of us, could you?’

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ Wood repeated, seizing hold of Naylor’s arm. ‘I’m arresting you for making an affray.’

  Naylor’s face became suffused with rage. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ll have you know that I happen to be a personal friend of Sir Edward Henry.’

  ‘I’ll make sure he knows you’ve been arrested,’ said Wood mildly. As an officer stationed in the centre of the capital, he had frequently encountered such veiled threats. ‘He’s very keen to maintain public order is the Commissioner. I’ll probably get a pat on the back.’

  ‘It was that woman who started it,’ shouted Naylor as he looked around for Ruby Hoskins, but following Hardcastle’s instructions she had fled.

  ‘Pick up that gentleman’s cane,’ said Wood to a constable, and signalled to the police van that he had arranged to have waiting. Wilmot bundled the still protesting Naylor into it, and Wood arrested Sarah Cotton telling her that she had been a part of the affray.

  But neither she nor Naylor was to know that Hardcastle had carefully orchestrated the entire operation.

  ‘Sir Royston Naylor is in the charge room, sir,’ said DS Wood, ‘and Sarah Cotton is being looked after in the matron’s office.’

  ‘Did Naylor give any trouble, Wood?’

  ‘No, sir, apart from screeching like a banshee,’ said Wood, with a grin, ‘and claiming that the Commissioner is a personal friend of his.’

  ‘Aren’t they all?’ said Hardcastle phlegmatically, and calling for Marriott, he descended to the charge room.

  Naylor leaped to his feet the moment the DDI entered. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ he demanded. ‘And I want to know your name.’

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle, head of the CID for this division. And this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’ Hardcastle indicated his assistant with a casual wave of one hand while dismissing the attendant constable with the other.

  ‘Well, Inspector, it might interest you to know that I happen to be a personal friend of—’

  ‘If you’re going to say Sir Edward Henry, I’ve just been on the phone to him and he said he’d never heard of you.’ Hardcastle had done no such thing of course, but took a chance on the Commissioner not knowing Sir Royston Naylor. Although accustomed to Hardcastle’s frequent outrageous statements, Marriott was, nonetheless, flabbergasted at the enormity of his DDI’s latest fabrication.

  ‘That still doesn’t explain why I was hauled down here in a police van like a common criminal.’ The exposure of his lie about knowing the Commissioner did nothing to deflect Naylor’s rage at having been arrested.

  ‘My officers tell me that you were engaged in an unseemly brawl with several prostitutes in Wilton Road, Sir Royston,’ said Hardcastle mildly. ‘And that makes you a common criminal in my book.’

  ‘I was trying to defend myself. I was set upon by those damned women for no reason at all.’

  ‘Be that as it may, Sir Royston, I understand that one young woman complained that you’d indecently assaulted her.’

  ‘Poppycock!’ exclaimed Naylor. ‘It was she who attacked me when all I was doing was having a private conversation with a young woman.’

  ‘You were speaking to a common prostitute,’ said Hardcastle brutally, ‘presumably in an attempt to arrange for a quick screw?’

  Naylor’s faced turned scarlet, and he huffed and puffed, and for a moment Hardcastle wondered if the clothing manufacturer was about to have a heart attack. ‘What if I was?’ he demanded eventually. ‘It’s not against the law.’

  ‘No, but engaging in a fight in a public thoroughfare, that amounted to an affray, most certainly is an offence. And I see no reason why you should not appear before the Bow Street magistrate tomorrow morning. I’ve of a mind to charge you with making an affray, and indecently assaulting a female.’

  ‘I suppose there’s no way around this, is there, Inspector?’ asked Naylor, suddenly adopting a tone of reason as he realized the predicament in which he found himself. He fingered the medallion on his albert and displayed it so that Hardcastle could not fail to see the square and compass device.

  ‘I’m not a Freemason, Sir Royston,’ said Hardcastle coldly, as he recognized that Naylor was attempting to seek preferential treatment, ‘but I am sworn to uphold the law.’ He paused and gazed at Naylor. ‘However, I might be able to persuade the complainant to drop the charge.’ He paused. ‘If you are willing to assist me, that is,’ he added.

  ‘In any way I can, Inspector.’ Naylor suddenly realized that this brash and irascible detective was offering him a way out. If he were to be taken to court, with all its attendant publicity, the scandal of engaging in fisticuffs with a prostitute whom he was soliciting, would ruin his reputation, and would certainly put paid to the peerage that had been hinted at in certain quarters.

  ‘When did you last have it away with Annie Kelly?’

  ‘Who?’ Naylor affected ignorance of the name, but the expression on his face indicated otherwise.

  ‘Let’s not beat about the bush, Sir Royston,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’m investigating her murder, and I’ve received information that you knew the woman, and furthermore that you had sexual intercourse with her.’

  ‘D’you mind if I smoke, Inspector?’ Naylor began playing for time.

  ‘Not at all.’ Hardcastle took out his pipe, and waited while Naylor took an Abdulla cigarette from a gold case.

  ‘It’s true that I saw the girl on a couple of occasions, but that was before I met Sarah.’ Naylor lit his cigarette with a gold lighter.

  ‘Which brings me to my next question, Sir Royston. Where were you on the night of Sunday the twenty-fourth of last month?’

  ‘I was in the country for the whole of that weekend,’ said Naylor promptly, almost as if he had been anticipating the question. ‘I didn’t return to London until midday on Monday.’

  ‘And where in the country were you, Sir Royston?’ asked Marriott, as he opened his pocketbook on the table.

  ‘At my country estate in Buckinghamshire.’ Naylor frowned, seemingly offended that a mere sergeant should have the audacity to pose a question to a person of his standing. ‘Together with my wife and a number of house guests. Influential house guests, I may say.’

  If that were true, Naylor was unlikely to have murdered Annie Kelly, but Hardcastle was not about to accept the word of a suspect. ‘Perhaps you’d be so good as to give my sergeant the address,’ he said.

  ‘Certainly.’ Naylor took a card from his waistcoat pocket a
nd handed it to the DDI who, in turn, gave it to Marriott. ‘Both my addresses are on there,’ he said, ‘and the address of my club. It’s the Carlton.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Royston,’ said Hardcastle, somewhat surprised at the man’s readiness to provide the information. ‘That’ll be all. You can go.’

  Naylor stood up, and some of his original hostility returned. ‘I assume that you have no evidence to support those trumped-up charges, Inspector, and I have to warn you that I am seriously considering a civil action for wrongful arrest and unlawful imprisonment.’

  ‘That’s your privilege, Sir Royston,’ said Hardcastle, unconcerned at a threat that had been levelled against him many times before. ‘But in order to defend such a civil action my officers will be obliged to give evidence that they saw you fighting with a number of prostitutes. The Commissioner is always keen to deny any suggestion that his officers acted in any way incorrectly, and he would strongly defend such an action.’

  Without another word, Sir Royston Naylor snatched up his silk hat and cane, left the room and slammed the door.

  ‘I intend to check that story of his, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We’ll have to make a few enquiries at this here Buckinghamshire estate to see if this alibi of his holds water. Now fetch Sarah Cotton in here. She’s in the matron’s office.’

  ‘What the ’ell ’ave I bin arrested for?’ demanded Sarah the moment Marriott escorted her into the interview room.

  ‘Sit down, Cotton,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You’ve been arrested for making an affray, and soliciting prostitution.’

  ‘That fight wasn’t nothing to do with me,’ protested Sarah. ‘It was them other girls what suddenly decided to set about poor old Charles. I dunno what they started it for.’

  ‘Charles?’ Hardcastle smiled. ‘I think you mean Sir Royston Naylor, don’t you?’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘He prefers not to use his real name.’ Suddenly all pretence at a cockney accent had vanished, and Sarah spoke in well-educated modular tones.

  ‘And while we’re on the subject of assumed names,’ continued Hardcastle, ‘I gather that you’re really Lady Sarah Millard.’

  Sarah blushed scarlet and placed a hand on her daringly exposed cleavage. ‘How on earth did you discover that?’ she blurted out.

  ‘Quite simply, Lady Sarah,’ said Hardcastle, deliberately using the woman’s title. ‘I had you followed by one of my best officers who then checked the voters’ register.’ He did not mention that he had had other enquiries made into the woman’s background. His next question, however, revealed that he knew more about her. ‘As a matter of interest, what does Colonel Millard think of your shenanigans?’

  Sarah blushed and looked down at the rough wooden table that separated her from Hardcastle. ‘He doesn’t know,’ she said softly.

  ‘I presume he’s fighting for King and Country somewhere, is he?’ Hardcastle’s tone of voice implied what he thought of women who prostituted themselves, literally, while their husbands were away at the war.

  ‘Yes, he’s in Flanders somewhere. I don’t know exactly where.’ Lady Sarah Millard looked up in panic. ‘He doesn’t have to know about this, does he?’ she asked again, an imploring look on her face.

  ‘I shan’t tell him,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but I doubt you’ll keep it a secret for long. Presumably your servants have seen you returning home dressed like a common tart.’ He waved a nonchalant hand at the harlot’s apparel that Sarah had affected.

  ‘They wouldn’t dare to ask questions,’ said Sarah imperiously. ‘Anyway,’ she added, softening her tone, ‘if they were to be so impertinent, I’d tell them that I’d taken up acting. That it was a part that needed me to dress like this.’

  ‘Well, there’s no arguing with that,’ commented Hardcastle drily, although it was common knowledge that actresses always changed into their day clothes before leaving the theatre.

  ‘Am I to be charged over this silly business this evening, Inspector? I really had nothing to do with it. It came as much of a surprise to me as it obviously did to Charles . . . er, Royston, that is.’

  ‘I’m willing to let it go on this occasion,’ said Hardcastle, giving the impression of great magnanimity, ‘but I don’t expect to hear that you’re hawking your body around my division in future. You can go.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Inspector. I’ve been a rather naughty girl, haven’t I?’ Sarah stood up, and shot a relieved smile at Hardcastle.

  ‘It’s not a case of being naughty, Lady Sarah. I’m investigating the murder of a prostitute who plied her trade on the same pitch as yours. And it could just as easily have been your body we found, or any of the other women. I suppose that silly little bored girls like you think it’s a bit of an adventure, going out on the streets and pretending to be a tart. Well, young lady, I can tell you that you’re playing a dangerous game. For one thing, you’re not able to take care of yourself like the other women. You should’ve stayed at home and embroidered a sampler, or whatever it is that women of your class are supposed to do.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize,’ said Sarah, now thoroughly contrite.

  ‘Just think what Colonel Millard would’ve thought were he to have received a telegram telling him that his wife’s strangled body, dressed like a tart, had been found in a basement in Washbourne Street. I doubt that your father, the Earl Rankin, would’ve been too impressed, either.’ Disgusted, Hardcastle turned to Marriott. ‘Show Lady Sarah out, Marriott, and then come up to my office.’

  ‘It looks as though we’ll have to start all over again, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘Naylor seems to be ruled out.’

  ‘Not necessarily, Marriott. You should know me better than that. I think we’ll have a trip down to Buckinghamshire tomorrow and check his alibi. Just because he says that’s where he was don’t mean it’s true. What was that address again?’

  ‘Kingsley Hall, sir. It’s just outside the small village of Kingsley, five miles from Wendover.’

  ‘How do we get there?’

  ‘Train from Waterloo, sir. It’s about an hour and half’s journey.’ Marriott knew that the DDI would pose that question, and had consulted Bradshaw’s railway guide to discover the route and the times of the services. ‘There’s a train at nine thirty that’ll get us there at ten fifty-two.’

  Hardcastle took out his watch. ‘Great heavens, it’s half past ten,’ he said, even though it was one of his foibles that he always knew the exact time. ‘I’ll see you here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, then, Marriott.’ He wound his watch and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket.

  Once Marriott had departed, Hardcastle donned his chesterfield overcoat, which he had now taken into use, gathered up his hat and umbrella, and walked down to the front office.

  ‘The maroons have just gone off, sir,’ said the station officer. ‘Another air raid. Gotha bombers this time, I’m told.’

  ‘Bugger the air raid, and bugger Fritz,’ said Hardcastle testily. ‘So long as they don’t leave another dead prostitute for me to deal with.’ And with that, he walked out into the fresh night air of Cannon Row and on to Bridge Street where the only sound was the popping of the street gas lamps.

  It was a clear night, and the searchlights on Apsley Gate were criss-crossing the sky in search of the deadly bombers.

  There was a tram waiting at the stop on Victoria Embankment.

  ‘Glad to see that Fritz don’t frighten you,’ said Hardcastle to the driver.

  ‘It’ll take more than those German bastards to rattle me, guv’nor,’ said the driver, and swinging the brass control handle, set his tram in motion.

  It was an uneventful journey home, and Hardcastle concluded that the observers at Great Yarmouth had, as usual, informed London of the arrival of the bombers the moment they had crossed the coast. London had, also as usual, immediately sounded the alert, but Hardcastle would be indoors before any Gothas reached the capital.

  Hardcastle’s house was in darkness when he arrived. He hung up his overco
at, bowler hat and umbrella, walked into the parlour and poured himself a whisky. He spent a few minutes scanning the late edition of the Star, which he had purchased on the way home, and noted, with a measure of grim satisfaction, that a Zeppelin had been shot down at Potters Bar by Lieutenant Tempest of the Royal Flying Corps. He finished his whisky and made his way upstairs, hoping not to disturb his wife, but she was reading a magazine.

  ‘You’re home late, Ernie,’ said Alice.

  ‘It’s being a detective that does it,’ said Hardcastle, quickly undressing and sliding into bed beside his wife. ‘The maroons have gone off.’

  ‘Yes, I heard them,’ said Alice, and carried on reading Woman’s Weekly. In common with most of the other residents of London, she had become fatalistic about air raids, and had adopted a similar view to that of troops on the Western Front: If your name’s on it, there’s not much you can do about it.

  EIGHT

  There was a solitary taxi on the rank outside Wendover railway station. The driver, an elderly grey-haired man, was reading a copy of the Daily Chronicle that he had spread out on his steering wheel, apparently absorbed in catching up on the war news.

  ‘D’you know where Kingsley Hall is?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Yeah, of course I do, guv’nor.’ The cabbie looked up, irritated at the interruption. ‘It’s about five miles from here,’ he said, and carried on reading his newspaper.

  ‘If it’s not troubling you too much perhaps you’d take me there, then,’ said Hardcastle acidly. ‘And my detective sergeant, too.’

  Hardcastle’s throwaway line galvanized the driver into action. He leaped from his seat and opened the rear door of his taxi.

  ‘Anything to oblige the law, guv’nor,’ he said, half bowing as Hardcastle and Marriott got in.