Hardcastle's Obsession

by Graham Ison

  ‘Come, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, ‘we’ll see if we can lay this wretched enquiry to rest once and for all.’

  ‘Mrs Agnes Eales?’ Hardcastle raised his hat to the middle-aged woman who opened the door of the house in Woolwich.

  ‘Yes, I’m Mrs Eales.’ The woman gazed at the two men, wondering what they were doing on her doorstep, and what they wanted.

  ‘We’re police officers, madam.’ Hardcastle produced his warrant card, and introduced himself and Marriott.

  Mrs Eales looked alarmed. ‘It’s not my boy Fred, is it?’

  ‘Fred?’

  ‘He’s in the army in France, the last I heard. Has he been wounded?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, madam,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We want to talk to you about a dairy roundsman by the name of Seamus Riley.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a relief. You’d better come in.’ Mrs Eales led the two policemen into her parlour, and immediately offered them tea.

  ‘Very kind, Mrs Eales,’ murmured Hardcastle.

  While Agnes Eales was in the kitchen making a pot of tea, Hardcastle gazed around the room. Scrupulously clean, it was, nonetheless gloomily furnished. Net curtains covered the windows, and a quantity of bric-a-brac seemed to cover every available surface.

  ‘What regiment is that fellow in, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle, pointing at a framed photograph of a soldier, prominently displayed on the mantelshelf.

  Marriott stepped across to the fireplace and studied the print of a young man, little more than a boy, in army uniform standing in a stiff pose beside a torchère. ‘The Irish Guards, sir. That’s the Star of St Patrick on his cap.’

  ‘I thought I recognized it,’ said Hardcastle. ‘So, what d’you gather from that, eh, Marriott?’

  ‘That Seamus Riley might be in the Irish Guards and not the Riffs, sir?’

  ‘Exactly. If Riley was keen to join up, he might have taken Mrs Eales’s son as an example. And Riley might be a sympathizer to the Republican cause.’

  ‘With respect, I doubt it, sir,’ said Marriott, appalled at yet another of Hardcastle’s bizarre assumptions. ‘The Irish Guards were raised in 1900 as a compliment to the way Irish regiments acquitted themselves in the Boer War. I think you’ll find that they’re true to King and Country.’

  Further discussion on the matter was stemmed by the arrival of Mrs Eales with a tray of tea. ‘D’you take milk and sugar, gentlemen?’ she enquired.

  ‘Both, thank you,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and so does Sergeant Marriott the last time I asked him. Now, about Seamus Riley,’ he added, accepting a cup of tea.

  ‘Such a nice young man,’ said Mrs Eales, as she sat in an armchair facing the two detectives. ‘He left here just before Easter.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘Only that he was going to enlist. Some Irish fusilier regiment, so he said.’

  ‘Did he ever say anything about home rule for Ireland, Mrs Eales?’ asked Marriott.

  Agnes Eales laughed. ‘He’d occasionally spout off about it, but I never took him seriously. The Irish are always going on about that, particularly them from the south. He was from Dublin, so he told me.’

  ‘Did your son Fred have any particular reason for joining the Irish Guards?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Not really, but apparently the recruiting sergeant was in the Irish Guards, and he convinced Fred that it was the best regiment in the army. Fred didn’t really care which regiment he joined, so he was quite happy to sign up with them.’

  ‘Did Mr Riley leave anything behind when he went?’ asked Marriott, trying to steer Mrs Eales back to the enquiry.

  ‘Yes, he did leave a suitcase with a few things in it. He said he’d come back and collect it, but he never did. I hope he’s all right.’

  ‘Did he ever mention a young lady called Annie Kelly, Mrs Eales?’ asked Hardcastle.

  Agnes Eales did not answer immediately, but spent the next few moments pouring more tea.

  ‘I think he was sweet on a young girl at one time,’ she said eventually. ‘I think she was called Annie, and he told me that she lived in Nelson Street. That’s not far from here.’

  Hardcastle knew that that was where Annie had lived with her parents. ‘And was he seeing her up until he joined the army?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t really know, Inspector.’

  ‘I wonder if we might have a look at this suitcase that Mr Riley left behind.’

  Mrs Eales hesitated. ‘Well, it is rather private. Is there something wrong?’

  Hardcastle decided that he had to tell Riley’s former landlady why the police were interested in him. ‘Annie Kelly has been murdered, Mrs Eales.’

  ‘Oh, good heavens. When was this?’

  ‘The end of last month,’ said Marriott.

  ‘But you surely can’t think that young Seamus had anything to do with it. I mean he was in the army by then.’

  ‘Did he come back after he joined up?’ asked Hardcastle. ‘Did you ever see him in uniform?’

  ‘Well, no, now you come to mention it, but I thought . . .’

  ‘The suitcase, Mrs Eales,’ prompted Hardcastle.

  ‘It’s in the cupboard under the stairs,’ said Agnes Eales, clearly distressed that she might have harboured a murderer.

  Marriott dragged the suitcase into the hall and opened it. There were a few items of worn clothing, a half-used writing pad and a diary. But the diary had no entries in it.

  ‘There’s this, sir.’ Marriott held up a small dog-eared piece of pasteboard. ‘It’s a membership card that says Seamus Riley is a member of Sinn Fein, sir.’

  ‘What’s Sinn Fein, Marriott?’

  ‘It’s Gaelic for “We ourselves”, sir. It’s a political party in Ireland that seeks independence.’

  ‘I thought as much. We’ll take it with us.’ Hardcastle turned to the landlady. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Eales,’ he said, ‘but we’ll not bother you any further.’

  ELEVEN

  On Friday morning, Hardcastle arrived at work at his usual time of eight o’clock. At the top of the stairs leading to his office, DC Catto was waiting.

  ‘What are you hovering there for, Catto?’ demanded Hardcastle without pausing. He took off his hat and coat, sat down behind his desk, and began to fill his pipe. ‘Well, come in, man.’

  Catto approached. ‘There’s a message from Special Branch, sir.’

  ‘Spit it out, Catto.’

  ‘Superintendent Quinn wishes to see you at half past nine promptly, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’ Irritated at this peremptory command, Hardcastle dismissed Catto, lit his pipe, and began dealing with the reports and expenses claims that his clerk had placed in a pile on the corner of his desk.

  At twenty-five past nine, Hardcastle donned his hat, seized his umbrella, and made his way downstairs and across the roadway that separated Cannon Row police station from New Scotland Yard’s central building.

  To add to his frustration, he was kept waiting until Quinn deigned to see him.

  ‘Do you have any information for me, Mr Hardcastle?’ asked Quinn, when eventually the DDI was admitted to the superintendent’s office at a quarter to ten.

  Hardcastle recounted the conversation that he and Marriott had conducted with Mrs Eales, and finally produced the Sinn Fein membership card. ‘And we found this among Riley’s belongings, sir,’ he said, handing Quinn the small piece of pasteboard that had been in the Irishman’s abandoned suitcase.

  Quinn placed the card in the centre of his desk and spent a few moments studying it. ‘Interesting, but all rather academic now, Mr Hardcastle,’ he said. ‘Late on Wednesday evening, I received information from the Special Branch in Dublin that your Seamus Riley was among those killed when the General Post Office in O’Connell Street was shelled by the British. That, of course, is absolute proof that Riley was a republican activist. I would have let you know sooner, but I was rather busy all day yesterday.’

  ‘I see, sir. Thank you,’ said Hardcastle
stiffly. He was furious that his trip to Woolwich to interview Agnes Eales had been unnecessary, and had wasted time that could usefully have been employed searching for Annie Kelly’s real killer. ‘Do you wish to keep that, sir?’ He waved a hand at the membership card.

  ‘Yes indeed, Mr Hardcastle. I’ll have it filed away. We never know when such snippets of information might come in useful. Good day to you, Mr Hardcastle.’

  Hardcastle nodded briefly and left the office. He concluded, not for the first time, that Special Branch filed everything, whether it was useful or not.

  ‘Marriott,’ shouted Hardcastle, as he reached the top of the stairs.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ responded Marriott, as he followed Hardcastle into his office.

  ‘A complete waste of time,’ muttered Hardcastle. He was still fuming that Quinn had not seen fit to inform him of Riley’s death as soon as he received it. It would have been a matter of simplicity to send one of his officers across to Hardcastle to tell him what had been learned. But he had long ago discovered that such was the secrecy that surrounded the activities of Special Branch that Quinn would not share information with anyone who did not need to know it. And that included his own detectives.

  ‘What did Mr Quinn have to say, then, sir?’

  ‘Seamus Riley’s dead, Marriott. Far from joining the Royal Irish Fusiliers, he was killed when the British Army shelled the GPO in O’Connell Street. Unfortunately, Mr Quinn was unable to tell us this before we went to Woolwich to see Mrs Eales.’ Infuriated though he was at Superintendent Quinn’s delay in passing on this information, Hardcastle would never, under any circumstances, criticize a senior officer to a subordinate one. ‘So, now we’ll have to start afresh, but I’m still of the opinion that Sir Royston Naylor’s our man.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott. It seemed that there was no way to steer the DDI away from his determination that Naylor was Annie Kelly’s killer.

  The DPP had happily ceded the case of Lieutenant Colonel Millard to the army, having no desire to prosecute a case involving a senior serving officer. For its part, the army preferred to avoid the publicity that would surround an Old Bailey trial, but, as it happened, the trial of Millard did attract unwelcome and widespread newspaper interest. As a result of those dual decisions the army acted with an uncharacteristic swiftness and a general court martial was convened within the week.

  On Monday the sixteenth of October, Hardcastle, DS Wood, DC Catto and Frobisher arrived at the Duke of York’s Headquarters in Kings Road, Chelsea, at ten o’clock.

  An impressive court had been assembled in one of the lecture rooms of the headquarters. The president, a brigadier-general, was flanked by a judge-advocate in wig and gown, a colonel of the General Staff, and two lieutenant colonels, one from the South Wales Borderers, the other from the Machine Gun Corps. These officers, wearing medals and swords, were seated behind an ordinary table, their highly polished field boots visible beneath it. On the blanket-covered table were carafes of water and glasses, and two red leather-covered books: King’s Regulations and the Manual of Military Law.

  Deprived of his Sam Browne and sword, Millard entered the courtroom accompanied by his defending officer, Lieutenant Colonel Rollo Prentice, a brother artilleryman. Both faced the court and saluted in unison. Already present at a table on the other side of the room were Lieutenant Colonel Rupert Cavendish the prosecuting officer, and his assistant, a young major.

  The members of the court were sworn in, and the judge-advocate read the charge.

  ‘How say you, Colonel? Guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘Guilty, sir,’ replied Millard in a strong voice. He had been advised that it would be in his best interests not to waste the court’s time by contesting the charge.

  ‘May we have the facts, Colonel Cavendish?’ said the president.

  The members of the court listened carefully as the prosecuting officer gave the details of Millard’s regrettable behaviour.

  ‘How many rounds did the accused fire, Colonel?’ asked the president.

  ‘One, sir,’ said Cavendish.

  ‘And no one was hit?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The president turned to the defending officer. ‘Do you wish to make a plea in mitigation, Colonel?’

  Prentice stood up, hitched up his sword, and ran a thumb down the inside of his Sam Browne cross belt. ‘Sir, may it please the court, Colonel Millard has been in command of a field artillery brigade that formed a part of the 46th Division engaged in the Somme offensive. I do not have to emphasize the strain such a battle places upon commanders. On Sunday the eighth of October, Colonel Millard left France for a well-deserved seven-day furlough and arrived at his home in Cadogan Place at about seven o’clock on the following day. There he found that his wife was in bed with a man. Not unnaturally, discovering his wife in such a compromising situation inflamed Colonel Millard’s temper. He chased the man out of the house, and fired a round over his head. Colonel Millard assures me that he had no intention of wounding the man, but merely to frighten him. He now bitterly regrets his impetuous action and realizes that it was a foolish thing to do.’

  ‘Flagrante delicto, as one might say,’ commented the president, an amused smile playing around his lips.

  ‘Exactly so, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Colonel Prentice.’ The brigadier-general toyed briefly with a sheet of paper. ‘Has the man that Colonel Millard chased from the house been identified?’ He knew that it was not uncommon for a man like Millard to return home from active service to discover that his wife had been unfaithful. Although it was not necessary for the court to have this information, the president saw no reason to shield the man who had cuckolded the accused. He knew that the name, if given in open court, would be entered in the record of the proceedings, and doubtless would find its way into the pages of the more scurrilous national press.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Prentice. ‘I am informed that he is Sir Royston Naylor, the owner of a company that manufactures military uniforms.’

  ‘Sir Royston Naylor, you say?’ The president wrote down the name and repeated it loudly, not wanting there to be any risk of it being unheard by members of the press.

  ‘That is correct, sir,’ said Prentice.

  ‘Very well,’ said the president. ‘The court will now withdraw to consider sentence.’

  Frobisher stood up and turned to the still seated Hardcastle. ‘That means that we withdraw, Inspector,’ he whispered. ‘It’s different from the civilian practice. In courts martial it happens the other way round. The members stay where they are, and we are the ones who go out.’

  ‘Damned funny business,’ muttered Hardcastle, yet again bemused by the practices of the military, and struggled to his feet.

  Once in the draughty corridor, along with everyone else who had been in court, Hardcastle lit his pipe.

  ‘How come that a lieutenant colonel is in command of a brigade, Colonel? Shouldn’t that be a brigadier-general?’

  ‘Not in the artillery, Inspector. An artillery brigade is what other regiments call a battalion.’

  ‘I see. What happens now, Colonel?’ asked Hardcastle, sorry that he had raised the question. He had decided, some time ago, that he would never understand the military.

  ‘The court will decide what to do with Millard, Inspector, and then it’s all over subject to confirmation by the general officer commanding,’ said Frobisher. ‘In the meantime, the members will be enjoying a cup of coffee while we’re left out here to freeze.’

  Sure enough a mess steward appeared bearing a huge tray of coffee, and was conducted into the courtroom by the court orderly, an elderly sergeant whose medals jangled irritatingly every time he moved.

  A full forty minutes elapsed before the court reconvened, and the unfortunates in the cold corridor were allowed back. Millard and his escort were marched in by the court orderly.

  ‘Colonel Millard, the court has considered your conduct with the utmost care, and has taken note of the defending
officer’s plea in mitigation,’ began the president. ‘However, whereas your anguish at discovering your wife with another man can be fully understood, it is still no excuse for recklessly discharging a firearm. As an officer, and a senior one at that, such conduct must be marked with condign punishment. You will, therefore, be reduced in rank to major with seniority effective from the date of your original promotion to major, subject to confirmation. March out.’

  ‘Bit harsh, I thought,’ said Frobisher, as he, Hardcastle, Wood and Catto made their way out to Kings Road. ‘Won’t do his career any good.’

  ‘Harsh?’ echoed Hardcastle. ‘An Old Bailey judge would probably have sent him to prison,’ he said. ‘And then his career would have been finished.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ admitted Frobisher. ‘However, considering the losses we’re sustaining, Millard will soon be back up to half-colonel, but he can forget about any promotion beyond that.’

  ‘Will he go back to Flanders?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so, Inspector. He’ll be sent to the RFA depot at Woolwich pending a posting to another unit. He’ll probably finish the war as an instructor somewhere in this country.’

  ‘Done himself a favour then,’ murmured Hardcastle.

  Hardcastle arrived early on the Tuesday morning and immediately sent for Marriott.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Are all the detectives in, Marriott?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Send them down to that newsvendor by Westminster Underground station to buy these papers.’ Hardcastle handed Marriott a list.

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Marriott took the list. ‘Will you be paying for them, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly not, Marriott. They can have them back once I’ve done with them.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Marriott returned with an armful of Tuesday’s national dailies.

  As the president of the court martial had anticipated, they carried a full account of the previous day’s proceedings at the Duke of York’s headquarters. And more.

  Many of them had acquired a photograph of Sir Royston Naylor, one of which showed him entering his Rolls Royce outside his offices in Vauxhall Bridge Road. With typical Fleet Street doggedness, some reporters had tracked down Lady Sarah Millard and included details of the Millards’ house in Cadogan Place together with a photograph. One organ of the yellow press had erroneously linked Earl Rankin’s family lineage with that of the Royal Family.