Hardcastle's Obsession

by Graham Ison

  Another paper had published a photograph of Kingsley Hall in Buckinghamshire. The caption boldly stated that ‘poor’ Lady Naylor lived there alone ‘while her adulterous husband was in bed with a hero’s wife’.

  ‘That lot should please Sir Royston, Marriott,’ chuckled Hardcastle, pushing the pile of newspapers aside. ‘Just think what they’ll have to say when the Millards’ divorce case comes up.’

  A constable appeared in the doorway of the DDI’s office.

  ‘There’s a Sir Royston Naylor downstairs, sir. He wishes to see you.’

  ‘Well, he needn’t think he can come bowling in here to see me whenever he feels like it, millionaire or not,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I wonder what he wants.’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ said the PC, ‘but he seemed fair upset about something.’

  Hardcastle laughed. ‘I’ll bet he is.’ He was tempted to instruct the station officer to deal with Naylor, but decided that it would be amusing to see what he had to say. ‘Show him up, lad.’

  When Naylor entered the office, almost apoplectic with rage, he was clutching a copy of the Daily Herald.

  ‘I want to know the meaning of this, Inspector,’ he blustered, brandishing the newspaper. ‘This is libellous. How could you possibly allow them to print this sort of stuff about me?’

  ‘Are you suggesting that the release of information about your philandering is a contravention of the Defence of the Realm Act, Sir Royston?’ asked Hardcastle mildly. ‘I don’t see that it damages the war effort. If it had, the censor would have barred it. Apart from anything else, I have no control over what the newspapers publish. I’m only a simple policeman.’ He waved a hand at the paper Naylor was holding. ‘What you have there is a report of a court martial, Sir Royston, and legitimate speculation resulting from it. It’s nothing to do with me, so I suggest you speak to the army.’

  ‘I’m going to sue this Millard,’ spluttered Naylor. ‘He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.’

  ‘I thought his intention was to cite you, Sir Royston,’ suggested Marriott, taking his lead from Hardcastle, ‘when he starts proceedings to divorce his wife.’

  ‘But the woman was willing,’ protested Naylor, as though her readiness to embark upon an affair exonerated him from any liability in the matter.

  ‘Makes no difference,’ said Hardcastle, by now tiring of the industrialist’s posturing. ‘And if you’d be so good as to stop wasting my time, I’ve a murder to solve. Good day to you.’

  ‘You’ve not heard the last of this,’ shouted Naylor, and collided with a chair in his hurry to get out of Hardcastle’s office.

  ‘By the time I get to hear of all the things I’ve not heard the last of, Marriott, it’ll take about a year to listen to them all,’ said Hardcastle, as Naylor could be heard stomping down the stairs.

  TWELVE

  ‘I think we’ll pay Lady Sarah Millard a visit, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, once Naylor had left his office.

  The DDI was becoming more and more impatient at his lack of progress in finding the killer of Annie Kelly, and was still annoyed at having unnecessarily wasted a morning interviewing Agnes Eales at Woolwich. As for the incident of Naylor cuckolding Hugo Millard, that had been an amusing diversion, but added nothing to the pitiful ragbag of evidence that had been accumulated. Now Hardcastle was looking for a different avenue of enquiry.

  ‘Lady Sarah? Is that wise, sir?’

  ‘Don’t see why not, Marriott.’

  ‘But what d’you hope to learn from her that we don’t know already, sir?’

  ‘Despite being a flighty, spoilt society girl, Marriott, I think that young Lady Sarah is more intelligent than your average tom,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Having frequented Victoria for some time, she might be able to shed some light on any men who were Annie Kelly’s regular tricks. I’m thinking that one of them put Annie up the spout and topped her, because her pregnancy would’ve made trouble for him. And I don’t think that that would’ve been a swaddy who’d only got across her the once and then disappeared into the night, so to speak. No, Marriott, we’re looking for a regular. And someone who’s expecting a peerage might just be such a candidate,’ he added, loath to give up on Sir Royston Naylor.

  ‘But Lady Sarah’s not likely to speak freely if Colonel Millard’s there, sir.’

  ‘Major Millard,’ corrected Hardcastle, a stickler for such minutiae. ‘He got demoted. Anyway, he had seven days leave, and that expired last Sunday. He’ll be at Woolwich now, not that I think he’d have stayed with his slut of a wife any longer than he had to, not now he’s decided to get shot of her.’

  ‘When d’you want to pay her a visit, then, sir?’ Marriott was not sure that the DDI’s proposal would be of any assistance in finding Annie Kelly’s killer. He had taken the view that Lady Sarah Millard was a cosseted and vacuous society girl who thought that playing at prostitutes was just a bit of fun. And he doubted that she had the wit to have taken note of anything of importance, or to recognize any of the men who had consorted with the murdered woman.

  Hardcastle pulled out his hunter and glanced at it. ‘No time like the present, Marriott.’ He thrust his watch back into his waistcoat pocket, donned his coat and hat, and seized his umbrella.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ The housemaid at the Millards’ Cadogan Place house bobbed at the sight of the two men on the doorstep.

  ‘We’re police officers, miss, and we’d like to speak to Lady Sarah Millard if she’s at home,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s moved, sir. The colonel’s put the house up for sale.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hardcastle, deeming it unnecessary to correct the housemaid’s error about her master’s rank. ‘D’you happen to know where Lady Sarah’s gone?’

  ‘She wrote the address down somewhere, sir. If you’d care to step into the hall, I’ll see if I can find it for you.’

  The two detectives followed the young woman into the house, and waited while she went in search of the details of Lady Sarah’s present whereabouts.

  ‘I’ve found it, sir.’ The housemaid returned waving a slip of paper. ‘She’s at Artillery Mansions in Victoria, at least for the time being. She said as how it’s not permanent.’

  ‘Thank you, miss,’ said Hardcastle, once Marriott had written the address in his pocketbook.

  ‘At least it’s on our ground, sir,’ said Marriott, when he and the DDI were back in the street.

  ‘Artillery Mansions,’ said Hardcastle. ‘A very suitable place for a Gunner’s soon-to-be ex-wife. That damned place haunts me.’

  ‘Are you thinking of Rose Drummond, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I am, Marriott.’ Only two months ago, Hardcastle had been saddled with investigating the murder of a German spy, Rose Drummond, whose body had been found in Hoxton Square, Shoreditch. She had been a resident at Artillery Mansions where she had held soirées for senior army officers and members of parliament from who she had hoped to extract information. It was an enquiry that had taken Hardcastle and Detective Sergeant Aubrey Drew of Special Branch to the little town of Poperinge in Belgium at a time when the Germans on the Messines Ridge were shelling it.

  Lady Sarah Millard’s apartment was on the first floor of Artillery Mansions, and the woman herself answered the door. That surprised Hardcastle; he had imagined that she would have had a butler, or at least a maid. Perhaps, he thought flippantly, even a ‘madam’.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector.’

  Hardcastle raised his hat. ‘Indeed, Lady Sarah, and I’d like a word with you.’

  ‘You’d better come in.’ Although the girl did not seem too happy at the arrival of the police, she showed the two detectives into a sparsely furnished sitting room, containing only a sofa, a couple of armchairs, and a small escritoire under the window.

  Lady Sarah noticed Hardcastle’s sweeping gaze. ‘I’ve not had time to furnish it fully, yet,’ she said, and then, dismissing that problem as a matter of no importance, she changed the subject. ‘I suppose
you’ve come about that dreadful business with Hugo and Royston.’

  ‘That’s no longer of interest to me,’ said Hardcastle bluntly. ‘But I understand that Major Millard intends to divorce you, and cite Sir Royston Naylor as co-respondent. I dare say that makes you extremely unpopular with both of them, having been responsible for your husband’s demotion, and attracting unwanted publicity for Sir Royston into the bargain. I don’t suppose your father, Lord Rankin, is too pleased either.’

  ‘I’ve ruined everything.’ Sarah was near to tears. ‘I never meant it to happen; it was all a terrible mix up.’

  ‘A mix-up?’ scoffed Hardcastle. ‘I’d’ve called it stupidity, but it’s something you’ll have to live with, I suppose.’ He had no intention of wasting sympathy on the Millard woman. To him, she appeared to be an empty-headed flibbertigibbet who went through life doing exactly as she pleased, without regard to anyone else’s views or opinions or feelings. ‘However, I’m more concerned with the fate of Annie Kelly, and finding her killer.’

  ‘I don’t see how I can help you, Inspector.’

  ‘How long were you playing at being a harlot, Lady Sarah?’

  Sarah Millard obviously did not like that word, and attempted to look offended. ‘About a month, I suppose,’ she admitted.

  ‘Did you know Annie Kelly?’

  ‘I spoke to her a few times.’

  ‘This was when you were soliciting in the Victoria area, I presume. I ask that because I’ve also been told that you tried your luck in Soho for a while, but got warned off.’

  ‘What makes you think I was ever in Soho?’

  ‘I’m a policeman, Lady Sarah, and it’s a policeman’s job to know about things like that. Where were you soliciting, Shepherd Market? That’s the usual stamping ground for whores.’ Ruby Hoskins had told Hardcastle this, but, as usual, he was intent upon checking. Not that where Sarah Millard had been plying her immoral trade had much bearing on the matter in hand.

  ‘Yes, I was there for a while.’ The girl answered in a whisper and glanced at the floor.

  ‘But it was only in Victoria that you came across Annie Kelly, was it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know any of the men she went with?’

  ‘Not by name. Sometimes I would send someone to her.’

  ‘What d’you mean by that, Lady Sarah?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘I wouldn’t entertain soldiers.’ Lady Sarah raised her chin slightly as if the very idea appalled her. ‘If one approached me, I’d send him to one of the other girls.’

  ‘So, you only dealt with officers and the titled gentry, did you?’ enquired Hardcastle sarcastically.

  ‘Only because they tended to have more money.’ To Lady Sarah it seemed a perfectly logical reason for declining to share ten minutes in some sleazy room with one of the common soldiery.

  ‘Did you send many men to Annie Kelly?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Did Sir Royston ever go with her?’ Hardcastle was beginning to lose patience with the earl’s daughter, and believed that she was being deliberately obstructive.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Sarah tossed her head, regarding the DDI’s questions little short of impertinent. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott stood up. ‘I’ll not trouble you further.’

  Sarah Millard remained seated and silent.

  ‘We’ll see ourselves out,’ said Hardcastle pointedly.

  Having deliberately slammed Sarah’s front door, Hardcastle descended to the ground floor with Marriott hurrying after him.

  ‘D’you think she was telling the truth when she said she didn’t know if Naylor had been with Annie Kelly, sir?’ asked Marriott as the pair emerged into Victoria Street.

  ‘Truth!’ responded Hardcastle fiercely. ‘That young whore wouldn’t know the truth if it came up and bit her on the arse. But I’m still sure that Sir Royston had something to do with Annie’s death, and I reckon that the noble Lady Sarah is covering for him. For all we know, he might be paying her to keep her mouth shut. Particularly as she’ll not be getting much money from the galloping major. And I dare say that Lord Rankin’s cut her off without a penny, because he can’t have failed to read the report of the court martial in The Times. But we shall see, Marriott, we shall see.’

  ‘I wonder if Annie Kelly ever worked Shepherd Market, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, when the two of them were back at Cannon Row police station.

  ‘I suppose it’s a possibility, sir.’ Marriott was unsure where the DDI’s latest thought was leading.

  ‘Sarah Millard admitted that she knew Annie, and she might’ve persuaded her that the pickings in Mayfair were more profitable than in Victoria. And if that’s the case, one of the whores up there might know of someone she was seeing. And that someone might just be our killer.’

  ‘D’you want me to send a couple of the DCs up there, sir?’ suggested Marriott hopefully, relieved that the DDI seemed to be veering away from Sir Royston Naylor as his principal suspect.

  Hardcastle stared at his sergeant. ‘Certainly not, Marriott. It’s far too important an enquiry to trust to the likes of Catto and company. We’ll go ourselves.’

  ‘When, sir?’ Marriott had known instinctively what the DDI’s answer would be, and foresaw another evening that he would not be spending with his family.

  Hardcastle took out his watch and studied it. ‘I should think that nine o’clock this evening will catch most of them, Marriott,’ he said, and dropped his watch back into his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘D’you want Mr Sullivan informed, sir?’ Marriott was aware that, as a matter of courtesy, the DDI of the St James’s Division should be told that Hardcastle was venturing on to that division’s area.

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with Mr Sullivan, Marriott,’ responded Hardcastle curtly, ‘unless he wants to solve our murder for us.’

  The DDI’s dislike of Sullivan was clear, and Marriott deemed it politic to remain silent. It was the nearest that Hardcastle had ever come to criticizing another senior officer in his hearing.

  The taxi set down the two detectives at the southern end of Queen Street, and they crossed Curzon Street to Shepherd Market.

  ‘This area is called Mayfair because they used to hold the May Fair here in the eighteenth century,’ said Hardcastle, giving Marriott the benefit of another of his potted history lessons. ‘But it became too riotous, and was abolished.’

  ‘Very interesting, sir,’ said Marriott.

  It was fortunate for Hardcastle that at that moment, a uniformed policeman entered the market from Shepherd Street. As a result, the assembled prostitutes, congregated outside The Grapes public house began moving towards Hardcastle and Marriott.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ exclaimed Hardcastle, extending both arms sideways.

  The women were now trapped, but the policeman seemed perplexed by Hardcastle’s action.

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ Hardcastle shouted.

  ‘Is that a fact?’ said the policeman. ‘Who are you, then?’

  ‘DDI Hardcastle of A.’

  ‘Want any help, sir?’

  The prostitutes, now apparently resigned to the fact that this was a police raid stood in a group, talking to each other.

  ‘I’m not here to arrest you,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott walked up to the disconsolate group. ‘I want to know if any of you knew Annie Kelly. She was murdered at the end of last month in Victoria, and I want to catch whoever did it.’

  There was a renewed hubbub of conversation, and eventually one young woman stepped forward.

  ‘I knew her, guv’nor.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Eliza Crabtree,’ said the girl, an attractive wench, no more than seventeen years of age.

  ‘When was this?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Around August, I s’pose. She was up here a few times, but then she sheered off back to Victoria.’

  ‘Did you
ever see Annie Kelly with this man?’ asked Marriott, producing a copy of the newspaper that contained a photograph of Sir Royston Naylor taken after Major Millard’s court martial.

  ‘Yeah, I did,’ said Eliza, without hesitation. ‘He come up here looking for her quite often. But if she weren’t here, he’d have another of us. I had him a couple of times.’

  ‘Was there anyone else that Annie saw regularly?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘No, not what I know of, mister.’

  ‘All right, Eliza, thanks,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘I was about to nick her, sir,’ said the C Division policeman, who by now was standing next to the DDI.

  ‘Well, don’t,’ said Hardcastle firmly. ‘She’s just been very helpful in a murder I’m investigating.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The PC saluted, and walked away.

  ‘Well, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, as they made their way back to Curzon Street, ‘all that’s done is to put Naylor at the top of my list.’

  ‘I thought he was there already, sir,’ said Marriott, risking a jocular comment, but received only a glassy stare from Hardcastle in return.

  For the next two days, Hardcastle sat in his office and fretted. He checked reports and signed expenses claims, but it was clear to anyone who knew him well that the Kelly enquiry was festering away in his fertile brain.

  On Friday he sent for Marriott.

  ‘I’m not happy that we’ve got all we can from the Millard girl, Marriott. I think we’ll go round and see her again.’

  ‘But she’s already said she doesn’t know if Sir Royston ever went with Annie Kelly, sir.’

  ‘She was lying, Marriott. I’ll tell her that if I charge her with obstructing police, I’ll make sure all her whoring will come out in open court. She won’t like that, and her father, the Earl Rankin, will like it even less. Especially now that the publicity about Major Millard’s court martial has died down.’