by Graham Ison
‘Ah, fresh air,’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘I’ve had quite enough of that jumped-up prig, Marriott, and I have to admit I was on the verge of losing my temper with him.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Although Marriott was accustomed to assessing the DDI’s moods, he was at a loss to believe that Hardcastle was under the impression he had been restrained during his talk to Quilter. ‘Where to now, sir?’
‘The Naval and Military Club,’ replied Hardcastle, waving his umbrella at a cab.
The cab pulled into the forecourt of the ‘In and Out’ and the detectives alighted. For a moment or two Hardcastle studied the three-storey building.
‘Lord Palmerston used to live here, Marriott.’
‘I didn’t know they had living-in members, sir.’
Hardcastle afforded his sergeant a withering glance. ‘He lived here before it was a club, Marriott. It was his London home.’
‘He was prime minister, wasn’t he, sir?’ Marriott knew perfectly well who Palmerston was but he thought that Hardcastle’s occasional flashes of historical facts were akin to someone who alighted from each station on the Underground railway system, familiarized himself with the immediate surrounding area and then professed to know London thoroughly. Nevertheless, he thought it advisable to flatter the DDI.
‘Quite right, Marriott. He was prime minister in the eighteen-fifties. He had a great sense of humour, too. When William Palmer, the mass poisoner, was executed, the people of Rugeley, Palmer’s home town, sought the prime minister’s permission to change the town’s name.’ Hardcastle chuckled. ‘Well, Palmerston was prime minister at the time and he suggested the town be named Palmerston. However, we mustn’t stand here wasting our time by gossiping. Pay the cabbie, Marriott, and don’t forget to take the plate number otherwise you won’t get your money back from the Receiver’s Office.’
‘Of course, sir,’ replied Marriott, attempting to keep the frustration from his voice; he had been reminded of this requirement by Hardcastle every time they had taken a cab.
‘If that’s anything to go by, I’d say that Lucas is here.’ Hardcastle pointed his umbrella at a maroon Lagonda coupé parked in the courtyard.
Marriott forbore from suggesting that there was more than one Lagonda in London. He took a great interest in motor cars and hoped one day to be able to afford one, although he realized that he would need to rise by several more ranks before that ambition was achieved. ‘That particular Lagonda model’s a powerful car, sir,’ he said as he admired the coupé’s graceful lines. ‘It’s twelve horsepower and costs about three hundred and fifty pounds.’
Hardcastle stopped and turned. ‘I sometimes think you spend too much time gathering trivia, Marriott, instead of concentrating on the job in hand.’ But the real reason for his acerbic comment was that he hated the idea that a sergeant knew more than he did.
A club servant, immaculately attired in green livery, held open the door as Hardcastle and Marriott mounted the two steps to the entrance. ‘May I be of assistance, sir?’ He possessed the ability to recognize every member of the Naval and Military Club and knew the name of each; one glance was sufficient for him to know that the two detectives were not members.
‘I’m a police officer,’ announced Hardcastle, ‘and I’d like a word with a Mr Oscar Lucas who I believe is a member of this here club.’
The servant lifted his head slightly, giving the appearance of looking down his nose at Hardcastle. ‘If you’d care to take a seat in the reception room, gentlemen, I’ll see if Captain Lucas is in the club.’ He pointed towards a set of double doors, beyond which was a circular table set in the centre of a large carpet and several spindly-legged sofas that at first sight appeared to be rather uncomfortable and were later proved to be so.
‘I’ll put money on him being an ex-sergeant major, Marriott. From the Brigade of Guards, most likely.’ Hardcastle glanced around the spacious room. ‘They do all right for themselves, these here army and navy toffs, don’t they?’
‘I imagine it costs a lot to be a member of this club, sir.’
‘I’m surprised you don’t know just how much, Marriott.’
But before Marriott was able to reply to Hardcastle’s barbed comment, a young man appeared in the doorway of the reception room and stared around. Although Hardcastle and Marriott were the only occupants of the room, it appeared to take the man some time for their presence to register.
‘I’m Oscar Lucas,’ drawled the young man eventually. ‘Are you the police chappies who want to have a word with me?’
Lucas was about five foot nine in height, painfully thin and of pallid complexion. He appeared too young to have held the rank of captain, and without his guardee moustache would not have looked out of place in the prefects’ common room at a public school. Hardcastle knew that young men had been promoted to ranks of life-and-death responsibility during a war that had seen a culling of great swathes of junior officers, many of the scions of the aristocracy among them. The life expectancy of a subaltern on the Western Front had been set at six weeks and had repeatedly been proved an accurate estimate. Oscar Lucas was one of the lucky ones to have survived, especially from the opening day of the Battle of the Somme. The first of July 1916 would be remembered as the worst day in the history of the British Army when it suffered over 50,000 casualties, of which 21,000 were dead before midday, mown down like scythes of corn.
‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, Captain Lucas. I’m looking into the disappearance of a young lady by the name of Lily Musgrave.’
‘Disappearance?’ Lucas settled himself in one of the sofas and Hardcastle and Marriott sat down in the one adjacent to it. ‘I don’t understand why you have come to talk to me. When did she disappear?’ He raised his eyebrows as if the whole affair was a complete mystery to him.
‘I have been told, Captain Lucas, that she left the VanDoo Club last Thursday evening in your Lagonda.’
‘Yes, she did, but what’s that got to do with the police?’ Despite Lucas’s spirited response, his face reddened and he looked away.
‘Very simply, Captain Lucas,’ said Marriott, entering into the conversation for the first time, ‘because she hasn’t been seen since.’
‘But this is absolute nonsense, Inspector.’
‘Perhaps you would tell me what exactly you mean by that.’ Hardcastle leaned back against the rear of the sofa but, finding no comfort in the rigid framework, sat forward again. Taking out his pipe, he slowly filled the bowl with tobacco before looking at Lucas again. ‘Where did you go after you and she left the VanDoo Club?’ He applied a match to the pipe and glanced up at Lucas again.
‘To my father’s apartment in Albany.’
‘So you stayed in London all weekend?’
‘Yes. My father wouldn’t approve of me taking a girl back to Epsom; he has an estate there along with a set of racing stables. He understands that all young men meet girls from time to time but emphasizes that such meetings must be discreet. My pater’s a bit old-fashioned, you see. However, he does allow me to use his apartment in Piccadilly.’
‘How did you spend the weekend, then?’ asked Marriott. ‘Did you stay in the apartment the whole time?’
‘Most of the time, but we went out for luncheon and dinner, of course.’
‘Where did you go for those meals?’ asked Hardcastle.
Lucas stared at the wall above Hardcastle’s head. ‘Romanos, the Savoy, the Criterion, Kettner’s, Rules, Bellini’s.’ He reeled off the names as though he was reciting a restaurant guide. ‘And one or two others that I can’t remember.’
‘And did you return Miss Musgrave to her home after your weekend of jig-a-jig, Captain Lucas?’ If Lily Musgrave’s father was to be believed, the girl had not been home since last Thursday, but he was interested to hear young Lucas’s version of events.
‘Yesterday morning, Inspector.’ Lucas spoke sharply, giving the impression that he was becoming irritated by the DDI’s questioning. ‘
But I have to say that I don’t much care for your insinuations. Miss Musgrave is a perfectly respectable young lady and any suggestion that she and I—’
‘I don’t care whether you like it or not, young man, but I’ll ask whatever questions I like and make any insinuations I like. Now then, did you take her home to Vincent Square or didn’t you?’
‘I would suggest that you answer my inspector’s questions, Captain Lucas,’ said Marriott. ‘Otherwise he might be tempted to arrest you on suspicion of abducting a minor.’
‘A minor?’ Lucas was clearly shocked by Marriott’s statement, the more so as it was delivered in mild tones.
‘She’s only seventeen years of age.’
‘Good God!’ Lucas was obviously taken aback by this revelation. ‘She told me she was twenty-one last Christmas Day. I remember that because we had a joke about her missing out on two sets of presents.’
‘Did you deliver this young lady to her home, Captain Lucas?’ Marriott asked patiently.
‘No, I dropped her off at Harrods in Brompton Road,’ volunteered Lucas hurriedly. ‘It was where she asked me to leave her.’
‘In Brompton Road itself?’ Hardcastle asked.
‘Of course in Brompton Road.’ Lucas adopted a superior tone as though dealing with someone who was not of the financial standing to be able to patronize Harrods.
‘There’s an entrance in Basil Street as well,’ said Hardcastle, ‘although that tends to be used more by royalty and theatrical performers. It’s to avoid the publicity, you see.’
‘Oh!’ Lucas was rapidly re-evaluating this rough detective. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘What time was it when you dropped her off at Harrods?’
‘About half past ten, I suppose,’ replied Lucas after hesitating for a moment or two.
‘When did you see her again?’
‘I haven’t seen her since, Inspector.’
Hardcastle grunted and stood up. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but I’ll very likely have to see you again, Captain Lucas. Come, Marriott.’ And leaving the somewhat bemused young ex-officer, he led the way out of the club and into Piccadilly.
‘What d’you make of him, sir?’ Marriott asked.
‘A strange young man, Marriott, but I suppose being in the Battle of the Somme must have had an effect. Did you notice the way his hands was shaking? I s’pose that’s what they call shell shock.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, sir.’ Marriott’s brother-in-law, Frank Dobson, had survived the entire war unscathed. In the latter months he had been commissioned and rapidly promoted to captain, and on Armistice Day had made formal application for a regular commission. Although reluctant to talk about his experience on the Western Front, refusing absolutely to discuss it with his sister, he did open up to Charles Marriott on occasions and talked of the dreadful effect of constant shelling. Although the generals were ill-disposed to recognize shell shock as a serious mental illness, preferring to think of those men as cowards, Frank Dobson and others who had witnessed it first-hand knew differently.
‘I think I’ll have a word with DDI Fowler of W Division, just to see if these here stables at Epsom are kosher.’
Marriott could not see the point of that but Hardcastle frequently embarked on an aspect of the investigation that Marriott thought unnecessary only to prove that it was the right course of action.
‘Ah! At last,’ exclaimed Hardcastle, spotting a cab.
‘Where to, guv?’ The cabbie wrenched down his flag as the two detectives clambered in.
‘Brixton nick,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and by the most direct route, mind. I don’t want a tour of London.’
The cabbie sniffed, but any criticism of a passenger he rightly guessed was a policeman remained unspoken.
‘Well, well, well! And what brings you up to the sharp end, Ernie?’ DDI Cornelius Fowler stood up from behind his desk and shook hands with Hardcastle.
‘The sharp end!’ scoffed Hardcastle. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve had a crime to solve out here in the leafy suburbs of Brixton. It’s a good job you don’t have to cope with my bailiwick, Connie. I’ve got the seat of government on my patch, along with Parliament, Buck House, Clarence House, Marlborough House and Westminster Abbey, to say nothing of Windsor Castle and the Palace of Holyrood House in Edinburgh.’
‘Bloody hell, Ernie, you’d better have a drink.’ It was what Fowler always said when the usual exchange of badinage took place between him and Hardcastle. Without further ado, he took a bottle of Scotch and three glasses from his bottom drawer.
‘You know my skipper, Marriott, don’t you, Connie?’
‘Yes, of course. Your guv’nor not worn you out yet, then, Marriott?’
‘Not yet, sir,’ said Marriott.
‘Well, Ernie, now we’ve got the mutual insults over and done with, what brings you to a working nick? Has the Elephant given you another job?’
‘No, the Commissioner has.’
‘The Commissioner? Well, he tells all of us what to do, in a manner of speaking, so you needn’t try to impress me just because you belong to the Royal A.’
Hardcastle explained how he had been sent for by Sir Nevil Macready yesterday morning and what Sir Nevil had tasked him to undertake.
‘Blimey! He really did send for you,’ exclaimed Fowler. ‘Sounds to me like a job that can make or break a career. But how d’you think W Division can help? Is there a suggestion the girl’s somewhere on my patch?’
‘No, not at all.’ Hardcastle told Fowler about Captain Oscar Lucas and his father’s racing stables at Epsom. ‘I’d be obliged, Connie, if you could have someone check it out, seeing as how Epsom’s on your manor. I think this youngster’s straight up but I’d rather be certain as the Commissioner’s involved.’
‘I’m not worried about the Commissioner, Ernie, but seeing as it’s you I’ll put one of my best men on it.’ Fowler poured another round of Scotch. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I get a result.’
SIX
Hardcastle pulled out his watch, briefly wound it and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket.
‘Just time for another pint, I think, Marriott.’
‘What are you proposing to do next, sir?’ Marriott was surprised by the DDI’s apparent hurry. In his experience, Hardcastle never rushed his lunchtime beer unless he had suddenly decided that there was something pressing he had to do.
‘We shall go to Harrods,’ Hardcastle announced. ‘Albert!’ Having caught the eye of the Red Lion’s landlord, he made a circling motion around the two empty glasses.
‘Coming right up, Mr H.’ Albert pulled two pints in fresh glasses and stood them on the bar. ‘Busy today, guv’nor?’
‘Never stops, Albert,’ said Hardcastle phlegmatically.
‘D’you think we’ll find out anything at Harrods, sir?’ Once again, Marriott was surprised by Hardcastle’s sudden decision to go to the prestigious establishment in Brompton Road. ‘I know that’s where Captain Lucas said he dropped Lily Musgrave on Monday morning but do you think anyone would have recognized her?’
‘Lily Musgrave is ruined by her old pot an’ pan, Marriott. I reckon she spends money whenever she feels like it and Austen Musgrave foots the bill. If she was in the store – and I’ve got doubts about that – someone will have remembered her, because she probably ran up a hefty bill.’ Hardcastle downed his pint of beer and swept up the stairs to street level, leaving Marriott to rush his drink and hurry after him.
The cab delivered Hardcastle and Marriott to the main entrance to Harrods. The uniformed commissionaire saluted; it was almost a reflex action prompted by the fact that Hardcastle was wearing a bowler hat and possessed what the commissionaire would probably have described as a ‘presence’.
‘Whereabouts is the ladies’ fashions department?’ asked Hardcastle.
This question, coming as it did from a middle-aged man accompanied by another man, elicited no reaction of surprise, and the commissionaire gave Hardcastle the appropriate directi
ons.
‘D’you reckon that’s where she was making for when Lucas dropped her off, sir?’ Marriott asked as he followed Hardcastle through the vast store.
‘Have you got a better suggestion?’ The DDI snapped out his answer without breaking step.
Marriott decided to leave it at that. He had worked with Hardcastle long enough to know when the DDI was in one of his moods.
A woman, who by her demeanour clearly held a managerial post of some sort, stepped forward as the two detectives arrived in the fashions department. She was in her mid-forties, elegantly attired and her hair had been expensively coiffed, the Marcel waves lying flat on her head.
‘May I help you, gentlemen?’ The woman did not seem very happy at the arrival of two men in her essentially female department.
‘I’m a police officer, madam. Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division,’ said the DDI as he raised his hat.
‘Really?’ said the woman doubtfully. ‘How may I help you?’ she asked again, but at once giving the impression that she was reluctant to do so.
‘I’m trying to discover the whereabouts of a young woman by the name of Lily Musgrave, madam. I have reason to believe that she may have been in this store and possibly in this department, yesterday morning at about half past ten. It is likely that she made some purchases. Perhaps you could tell me if she was, in fact, here.’
‘Miss Musgrave, you said?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘One moment.’ The woman disappeared behind a showcase and was gone for some minutes.
‘Either she knows who Lily Musgrave’s father is or she’s looking up her order book,’ said Hardcastle, gazing around at the array of dresses. ‘They look a bit on the pricey side, Marriott.’
‘Yes, sir, but it’s the sort of shop where, if you have to ask the price, you probably can’t afford it anyway.’ Marriott afforded himself a brief smile that amounted to little more than lifting the corners of his mouth.
‘Where did you learn that?’ demanded Hardcastle.
