Hardcastle's Obsession

by Graham Ison

  ‘Is he, by Gad? I might’ve guessed he’d be some sort of profiteer. Well, Inspector, I’ve never heard of him, and I’d never met him until this evening. He wants to think himself damned lucky he’s still alive. I’m an exceedingly good shot and he should be grateful I intended to frighten him rather than kill him.’

  ‘So, there’s nothing you can tell me about Naylor.’

  ‘Not a thing, Inspector, other than that he was having an affair with my wife. Who will soon be my ex-wife. I shan’t hesitate to cite him in divorce proceedings.’

  ‘Very well, Colonel, I don’t think you can help me any further.’ Hardcastle had no intention of telling Millard that his wife had been in the habit of picking up men at Victoria railway station and bedding them. That would involve his officers giving evidence in the divorce court, and the Commissioner much preferred that his officers did not become involved in matrimonial proceedings. In any event, it seemed that Colonel Millard had adequate grounds for divorcing his wife without any testimony from the police.

  ‘D’you mean I can go, Inspector?’

  Hardcastle laughed. ‘No, it doesn’t, Colonel. You’ll appear before the Bow Street magistrate tomorrow morning, charged with discharging a firearm on the public highway with intent to endanger life.’

  ‘For God’s sake man, I didn’t hit anyone. I deliberately fired high. This will ruin my career.’

  ‘I can only suggest that you should have thought of that before you decided to take a pot-shot at Sir Royston Naylor, Colonel. Incidentally, you’ll probably finish up at the Old Bailey on account of it being a felony.’

  ‘But there’s a war on. I’m needed at the Front.’

  ‘That is not a matter for me, Colonel Millard. Incidentally, this whole sorry business will be reported to the Provost Marshal of the Army. What happens to you after that is a matter for the military.’

  Millard rose unsteadily to his feet, his shoulders slumping as he realized that his reckless act would almost certainly result in his being cashiered.

  ‘Fetch Naylor in here, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, ‘once you’ve taken Colonel Millard back to his cell.’

  Sir Royston Naylor appeared more contrite than on the previous occasion he had been interviewed by Hardcastle.

  ‘What is it with you?’ demanded the DDI. ‘I’d’ve thought that the fracas you were involved in last time would have taught you a lesson, but no, you had to keep seeing Lady Sarah despite my warning.’

  ‘It was all a misunderstanding, Inspector,’ said Naylor.

  ‘A misunderstanding?’ Hardcastle laughed. ‘I can see that, Sir Royston. An extremely serious misunderstanding. On your part, of course.’

  ‘I had no idea that Colonel Millard would be coming home on leave.’

  ‘Neither, it would seem, had Lady Sarah,’ observed Hardcastle mildly. He was quite enjoying Naylor’s discomfort.

  ‘What will happen now, Inspector? Will there be a court case?’

  ‘I regret to say that you do not appear to have committed any offence, so you will not be charged.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Naylor. ‘I promise you I’ll keep out of your way in future. I have to say it’s a relief that I’ll not have to go to court.’

  ‘Oh, but you will, Sir Royston. Colonel Millard told me that he intends to divorce his wife, and he’ll most certainly cite you as a co-respondent. That means that you can look forward to an appearance at the Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand at some future date. The newspapers will love it; they always make a big thing of a society scandal.’

  ‘Oh my God, that publicity will ruin me,’ complained Naylor.

  ‘Very likely,’ said Hardcastle. ‘That’ll be you and Colonel Millard ruined together. And all for the sake of a bit of jig-a-jig with Millard’s ragtime girl of a wife.’

  TEN

  ‘Good morning, Inspector.’ The assistant provost marshal’s chief clerk looked up from the pile of reports on his desk. ‘You’ll be wanting to see the colonel, no doubt.’

  ‘Is he here, Sergeant Glover?’

  ‘Yes, he is, Inspector. The colonel’s always in bright and early.’ Glover conducted the two detectives into Lieutenant Colonel Frobisher’s office, and immediately sent his assistant for tea.

  ‘Ah, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Frobisher, standing up to shake hands with the DDI and Marriott. ‘How can I help you this morning?’ he asked. ‘Another deserter perhaps? Please take a seat, gentlemen.’

  ‘A rather more serious matter, Colonel,’ said Hardcastle, secretly relishing the disquiet that his announcement was about to cause. ‘Yesterday evening two of my officers arrested Lieutenant Colonel Hugo Millard of the Royal Field Artillery.’

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Frobisher, a shocked expression on his face. ‘Whatever for? Not desertion, surely? Colonels don’t usually absent themselves.’

  ‘Discharging a firearm on the public highway to the common danger.’ Hardcastle made the statement bluntly, and went on to tell the APM the circumstances of the arrest. ‘In short, Colonel Millard arrived home on leave from Flanders to discover that his missus was being screwed in the marital bed by a man named Sir Royston Naylor, and Millard didn’t much care for it.’

  ‘I should think not,’ said Frobisher, somewhat taken aback by Hardcastle’s earthy language, to which, even after knowing him for some years, he had yet to become accustomed. ‘I imagine he will appear at court, then, Inspector.’

  ‘Most definitely, Colonel. Ten o’clock this morning at Bow Street.’

  ‘What’s the likely outcome?’ asked the APM.

  ‘Difficult to say. It is a felony, of course, and he could be sent for trial at the Old Bailey.’

  ‘But, surely, as an army officer—’ began Frobisher.

  ‘Apart from the magistrate probably saying that as an army officer Millard should have known better,’ said Hardcastle, seeing no reason to excuse the colonel’s behaviour, ‘he will most likely say that it is definitely a matter for the civil jurisdiction. However, subject to a ruling from higher authority, he might prefer that the army deals with it, as there’s a war on. But in the end, it’ll probably mean that there’ll be a powwow between the army and the Director of Public Prosecutions.’

  ‘It would certainly be preferable from the army’s point of view if we were to deal with it,’ said Frobisher. ‘Not that I can see us avoiding the publicity that the whole business is likely to attract. Incidentally, was it his service revolver that he fired, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ said Hardcastle, although he could not quite understand what difference it would have made if Millard had fired some other weapon. ‘It’s in the police property store at the moment and will be produced at court.’

  Frobisher glanced at his watch. ‘His unit won’t have been informed, I suppose.’

  ‘As I said, he was on leave, Colonel, and I gather he’s serving on the Western Front somewhere, so there was no question of sending for one of his unit’s officers to give evidence of character. Not that it would be needed at this stage. In any event, I suppose it would have to have been a full colonel, or even a general.’

  ‘God, what a mess, and all because of an unfaithful wife,’ said Frobisher, shaking his head. ‘It’s happening a lot these days, Inspector, and it’s this damned war that has to answer for it. Decent moral behaviour seems to have gone all to pot.’ He sighed, and glanced at the clock. ‘In that case, I suppose I’d better go to court myself. There ought to be someone there from the army. Will you be going, Mr Hardcastle.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything, Colonel,’ said Hardcastle, with a laugh.

  ‘I’m most grateful to you, Inspector,’ said the APM, mistakenly assuming that Hardcastle was doing him a favour. ‘I’m not sure what happens in these circumstances.’

  Hardcastle, Marriott and Frobisher arrived at Bow Street just as Lieutenant Colonel Hugo Millard was about to be arraigned.

  There was a hubbub of conversation in the public gallery at the appearance in t
he dock of so senior an army officer in full uniform, and the reporters in the press box began to scribble furiously.

  ‘Before I take a plea is there an officer here from Colonel Millard’s regiment?’ enquired the Chief Metropolitan Magistrate, his gaze raking the court. His question was a necessary formality; he could not assume that Lieutenant Colonel Frobisher, resplendent though he was in service dress, Sam Browne and a brassard bearing the letters APM, was such an officer. Apart from which, other army officers had been drawn to this unusual spectacle, and were gathered in the public gallery.

  ‘Lieutenant Colonel Frobisher, sir,’ said the APM as he stood up. ‘I am the assistant provost marshal for the London District.’

  ‘Come into the witness box, Colonel.’ The magistrate indicated impatiently with a flourish of his hand, and waited while Frobisher skirted the back of the court and mounted the two steps into the box. ‘Is this a matter that the army would be prepared to deal with, Colonel?’ he asked, fingering his Old Etonian tie. ‘Subject to any ruling by the Director of Public Prosecutions, of course. Or even the Attorney-General.’

  ‘I’m not in a position to answer that question at this stage, sir. I would need to consult the army’s lawyers.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the magistrate. ‘Perhaps you’d be so good as to do so. In the meantime, I shall remand Colonel Millard into military custody for eight days. I dare say you can take care of that, Colonel Frobisher. After that, I expect to see him here again to answer the charge, or to be told that the DPP is content to allow the military authorities to deal with it.’ He scribbled a few words in his register before glancing up. ‘Next.’

  A roughly dressed man stepped into the dock, clutching a cloth cap. ‘Morning, guv’nor,’ he said in a gravelly voice. ‘Nice day.’

  ‘Frank Duckett, Your Worship,’ said the PC gaoler. ‘Charged with being drunk and disorderly in Wellington Street.’ Duckett was well known to the magistrate for his frequent appearances. ‘I’m guilty, sir.’ Duckett entered a plea before the clerk was able to put the charge to him. ‘And I’m very sorry.’

  ‘I think the best thing is for me to take Colonel Millard to Wellington Barracks in a taxi, Inspector,’ said Frobisher, as he and the two detectives walked down the passageway that led to the gaoler’s office. ‘The commanding officer there will have the unenviable task of providing twenty-four-hour escorts while Millard’s confined there. God knows where he’ll get a roster of half-colonels from.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d keep me informed, Colonel. My officers will have to give evidence whether it’s at the Old Bailey or before a court martial. I presume that Millard will be court-martialled in any event.’

  ‘I imagine that’s inevitable, Mr Hardcastle. Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman would be one charge, even if he appears before a civilian court and they impose another penalty. Nevertheless, I can foresee a few days of frantic indecision at the War House until a solution is arrived at. I doubt they’ve ever been confronted with a case like this before.’ Frobisher appeared to derive some sadistic pleasure from that prospect. ‘By the way, I have some information regarding your Seamus Riley. If you’d care to call on me later today, I’ll tell you what little I’ve learned.’

  It was late that same afternoon when Hardcastle returned to the APM’s office in Horse Guards.

  ‘Did you get Colonel Millard settled, Colonel?’

  Frobisher made a sour face. ‘The commanding officer at Wellington Barracks was not best pleased, Inspector. In fact, he seemed to resent having a Gunner officer mixing with his precious Brigade of Guards. However, about Seamus Riley . . .’

  ‘You said you’d learned something, Colonel.’

  ‘All rather negative, Inspector. The records office of the Royal Irish Fusiliers has no record of the Seamus Riley you’re interested in. As I’d anticipated, there are quite a few Seamus Rileys on their roll, but none who joined at about the time you mentioned.’

  ‘I wonder where he went, then,’ mused Hardcastle aloud.

  ‘If I might make a suggestion, sir . . .’ said Marriott.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘The date that Mr Underwood, the dairyman, said that Riley left his employment was just before Easter.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it, Marriott?’

  ‘It’s possible that he returned to Ireland to take part in the Easter uprising, sir.’

  Hardcastle was on the point of dismissing Marriott’s suggestion as preposterous when the APM spoke.

  ‘I was about to make the same observation as Sergeant Marriott, Inspector.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to get a message to the Dublin Metropolitan Police, then,’ said Hardcastle gloomily. The prospect did not please him. ‘Thank you for your assistance, Colonel.’

  The following day, Hardcastle embarked upon the wearisome task of tracking down the mysterious Seamus Riley.

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to talk to Superintendent Quinn, Marriott.’

  ‘Why, sir?’ Marriott was somewhat puzzled by the DDI’s announcement. ‘What does Special Branch have to do with Riley?’ Patrick Quinn was the head of the Yard’s branch that dealt with political extremism, among other matters, and in Marriott’s view, was unlikely to be interested in the murder of a prostitute.

  ‘If Riley was involved in the Easter uprising, Marriott, as Colonel Frobisher suggested, Mr Quinn’s people might know where I can find him. If they don’t, they’ll be able to talk to the SB in Dublin. With a bit of luck they might know something.’ Hardcastle seized his bowler hat and umbrella, but decided that the short walk across to Scotland Yard did not warrant his overcoat. ‘Not that I hold out much hope. In my experience, even if SB knew something, they’d most likely keep it to themselves.’

  Superintendent Patrick Quinn was standing behind a huge oak desk set across the corner of his office. He was a tall, austere-looking man with a grey goatee beard, an aquiline nose and black, bushy eyebrows. He looked up from the dossier he was reading, his piercing blue eyes studying the inspector who now stood in front of his desk.

  ‘Well, Mr Hardcastle, what is it you want to see me about?’ Quinn spoke with a soft Mayo accent.

  ‘It’s a matter of a murder I’m dealing with, sir.’

  ‘Explain yourself, man. I don’t have all day.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Hardcastle went on quickly to outline his interest in Seamus Riley, and the possibility that he had returned to Ireland to take part in the Easter uprising.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘It was a suggestion put forward by the assistant provost marshal, sir.’

  ‘Really? Well, I can tell you that I don’t regard the army as knowing too much about Irish republicanism, Mr Hardcastle. All their officers were at Fairyhouse races in County Meath, fifty miles from Dublin, when the uprising started. However, I’ll speak to my Special Branch colleagues in Dublin. If I discover anything, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, find out as much as you can about this man. If he’s an Irish rebel and he’s back here, I need to know. Good day to you, Mr Hardcastle.’

  ‘Any luck, sir?’ asked Marriott, when the DDI returned.

  ‘Luck don’t enter into it, Marriott,’ snapped Hardcastle. He was not at all happy about his interview with the head of Special Branch, coming away, as he had, without any information. ‘Mr Quinn wants us to find out as much as we can about Riley.’ It seemed to the DDI that he was going to finish up doing SB’s work for them, and that they would contribute nothing to the discovery of Annie Kelly’s murderer.

  ‘Another trip to Greenwich, then, sir?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Hardcastle, glancing at his watch. ‘And there’s no time like the present.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ Marriott was unconvinced that Seamus Riley was a likely suspect for the murder of Annie Kelly, but at least, Hardcastle had momentarily lost interest in Sir Royston Naylor.

  ‘Ah, the gentlemen from the police.’ Cyril Underwood looked up as the two detectives entered his dair
y. ‘And how can I help you today, Inspector?’

  ‘Seamus Riley,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Are you sure you’ve no idea where he was living prior to his departure?’

  ‘As I said before, all I can tell you is that he left here to join the Royal Irish Fusiliers.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’ve had a check made with the military and he definitely did not join the RIF.’ With some misgiving, he thought that Riley might have joined some other regiment. But it would be impossible to search the records of the entire British Army, standing now at almost two million men under arms.

  ‘Oh, well, that’s what he said he was going to do.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea where he was living when he was working for you, Mr Underwood?’

  ‘The only thing I can tell you is that he sometimes mentioned his landlady, a Mrs Eales.’

  ‘D’you know of this woman, Mr Underwood?’ asked Marriott. ‘Or where she might live?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, sir. She’s certainly not a customer of mine.’

  ‘How did Riley get to work? Did he come by tram, or walk, or ride a bicycle?’

  Underwood thought about that for a while. ‘Now you come to mention it, Inspector, he walked. I remember he came in here one morning looking like a drowned rat. He said that he’d been walking in the rain for about ten minutes. Does that help?’

  ‘It might,’ said Hardcastle, angry that Underwood had not seen fit to tell him this on his last visit.

  ‘That’s something, I suppose, sir,’ said Marriott as he and the DDI left the dairy.

  ‘All we have to do now, Marriott,’ muttered Hardcastle, ‘is to find a Mrs Eales who lives within ten minutes’ walk of Underwood’s dairy. Well, I’m not traipsing round the streets of Greenwich trying to find her. That’s a job for one of the DCs.’

  On his return to Cannon Row, Hardcastle promptly instructed Detective Constable Herbert Wilmot to find Mrs Eales without delay.

  At ten o’clock on the Thursday morning, Wilmot reported that a Mrs Agnes Eales lived at an address in Plumstead Road, Woolwich, and that she let out rooms.