by Graham Ison
‘DS Gandy, sir. Mr Fowler asked me to bring this report to you personally. He said it was important.’ Gandy handed over a three-page document.
‘Who prepared this, Gandy?’ asked Hardcastle, fingering the report.
‘I did, sir. Mr Fowler said as how he wasn’t prepared to trust it to anyone else in the circumstances.’
‘What circumstances were they, Gandy?’
‘He never said, sir.’
‘I’ll read it later, but just tell me what you found out about these here racing stables belonging to Captain Lucas’s father.’
‘His father is Lord Slade, sir, and Captain the Honourable Oscar Lucas is his only son. He inherited the racing stables, by which I mean Lord Slade did, sir, from his late father. Incidentally, it’s an Irish peerage, sir, and Lord Slade seems to spend most of his time in Ireland where he has interests in stables over there an’ all, mainly from the point of view of buying stock, as you might say.’
‘Where did you get this information from, Gandy?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Most of it came from Lord Slade’s head stable lad, sir. He’s a man of about twenty-five – Padraig O’Reilly, he’s called – but he’s only been with His Lordship since the Armistice, on account of having served with the North Irish Horse during the war. Was in the fighting down near Cambrai, so he said. I also put myself about in Epsom town itself, mainly in the pubs, and just kept my ears open. The best place for a bit of earwigging was the Spread Eagle in the High Street. Very popular with the racing fraternity is the Spread Eagle. Once I’d casually mentioned Lord Slade’s name, I just sat back and listened.’
‘Did you ask this head stable lad whether he’d seen Captain Lucas and a young woman at the stables last weekend, sometime between Thursday night and Monday morning, Gandy?’
‘Yes, sir. Mr Fowler said as how I should make such an enquiry and O’Reilly said there was a young filly there what come down with Captain Lucas.’
‘When you say a young filly, Gandy, I suppose you mean a young woman,’ suggested Hardcastle, who wanted to make sure that Lucas had not arrived with a horse.
‘Oh, yes, sir.’ Gandy did not take Hardcastle’s comment as a rebuke but merely laughed. ‘It’s mixing with these racing chaps what does it, you see, sir.’
‘Did you get a description of this young woman?’
‘Yes, for what it’s worth, sir. If it had been a horse I’ve no doubt O’Reilly would’ve been able to describe it from its ears right down to its back fetlocks, but the description he give me of the young lady was a bit sketchy. It’s in the report, sir.’ Gandy pointed at the document on Hardcastle’s desk. ‘It’s right at the end, sir.’
Hardcastle turned to the page and read the brief description. ‘That’d fit a hundred young flappers,’ he said, tossing the report to one side. ‘To save me another trip out to Brixton, ask Mr Fowler if you can keep in touch with this here stable lad, Gandy, and let me know if you hear any more about this mysterious young woman.’ He categorically refused to use the telephone to speak to DDI Fowler, or anyone else for that matter. Although he disliked the telephone, and viewed it as a passing fad, he was slowly accepting that it could be quite useful, provided he did not have to use the instrument himself.
‘Very good, sir.’ Gandy ran his sleeve over his bowler hat as if grooming the nap, then turned to leave the office.
‘On your way out, ask Marriott to come in.’
‘Very good, sir.’
A few moments later, Charles Marriott appeared. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Have a look at this report that Gandy brought up, Marriott, and tell me what you think.’
It took Marriott but a few minutes to scan DS Gandy’s report. ‘When we interviewed Lucas at the In and Out, he told us that he and Lily spent the weekend in London and stayed at Lord Slade’s apartment in Albany,’ he said, returning the report. ‘Which means that Lucas is a liar, sir,’ he added. ‘Or the stable lad is, which I doubt.’
‘Have you got that list of the restaurants Lucas said he and Lily dined at, Marriott?’
By way of a reply, Marriott opened his pocketbook at the relevant page and handed it to the DDI.
‘We’ll pick one of them for a start, Marriott.’ Hardcastle ran his finger down the list of names. ‘Bellini’s will do.’
‘A table for two, sir?’ The tail-coated man who greeted Hardcastle and Marriott at the entrance to Bellini’s in the Strand was the epitome of attentiveness.
‘No,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We’re police officers and I want to speak to whoever’s in charge here.’
‘Oh, I see. George Pickard, maître d’hôtel, at your service, sir.’ He paused. ‘No trouble, I hope.’
‘Not at all, Mr Pickard,’ said Hardcastle, introducing himself and Marriott. ‘Just a little information if you have a moment.’
The maître d’hôtel glanced around and flicked his fingers at a passing waiter. ‘Take over here for me, Luigi, while I have a word with these gentlemen.’
‘Certainly, signore,’ said Luigi, and picked up a few menus from the maître d’hôtel’s station.
‘Now, sir,’ said Pickard, ‘if you’d care to come with me, we’ll go somewhere quiet where we can talk without being disturbed.’ He led the way into a small office near the restaurant entrance. There was a desk and one or two upright chairs, and Pickard invited the detectives to sit down before seating himself behind the desk.
‘Do you happen to know Miss Lily Musgrave by sight, Mr Pickard?’ asked Hardcastle. ‘She’s Austen Musgrave’s girl.’
‘Indeed I do, sir. An attractive young lady.’
‘Was she here at any time over the last weekend?’
Pickard appeared to give the question some considerable thought. ‘No, sir,’ he said eventually. ‘But if memory serves me correctly, she was here the previous Saturday evening.’
‘Can you describe the man she was with on that occasion?’ Hardcastle knew that she would not have dined alone or with another woman, except perhaps for her mother. But Marie Faye was in Brighton, performing at the Hippodrome.
‘I can do better than that, sir. She was with Major Quilter. He owns the VanDoo Club in Rupert Street.’
‘Oh, does he?’ said Hardcastle mildly, pretending that this was news to him.
‘Did she and Major Quilter appear to be close, Mr Pickard?’ asked Marriott.
‘Very much so, sir. In fact, they were holding hands from time to time – discreetly, of course. Mind you, she always seems to be close to the gentlemen who entertain her here, if you take my meaning.’
‘I notice that you didn’t describe them as young gentlemen, Mr Pickard,’ suggested Marriott.
‘Ah, I can see you’re a detective, sir,’ said Pickard with a smile. ‘And you’re quite right: some of them were often quite mature gentlemen.’
‘Do you happen to have the names of any of the men she dined with? Was she, for instance, ever in the company of a Captain Oscar Lucas?’
‘Captain Lucas.’ For a moment Pickard savoured the name. ‘Oh, yes, Lord Slade’s son and heir. Yes, he’s been here with Miss Musgrave once or twice.’ He paused. ‘He’s been here with other young ladies, of course.’ He emitted a sigh. ‘What it is to be young, eh, Mr Hardcastle? In part it’s a result of the war, I suppose. These young blades that served count themselves lucky to be alive and they’re taking full advantage of it. You can’t really blame them, and they’re entitled to a bit of fun after the Front.’
‘Can you remember any of the other men who brought Miss Musgrave here, Mr Pickard?’ prompted Hardcastle, steering the maître d’hôtel away from his philosophizing.
‘If you care to wait a moment, Inspector, I’ll fetch the reservations lists for the last couple of months.’
‘So much for Quilter’s statement that he never entertained Lily, sir,’ said Marriott once Pickard had left the room.
‘Don’t come as no surprise, Marriott. He denied it a bit too quick to be convincing. And I wonder where Quilter took
this young lady of “easy virtue” after he’d wined and dined her. In my experience, men of Quilter’s sort who buy dinner for a flapper in a swish place like this expect something in return.’
Pickard returned to the small office. ‘She seems to have been a regular visitor here, Inspector.’ He was clutching a sheaf of paper and now wore a pair of spectacles. ‘Over the last two months, she was here on four occasions, usually on a Friday or Saturday evening, apart from once at lunchtime. That was about six weeks ago.’
‘Do you have the names of the men who made the reservations, Mr Pickard?’
‘Indeed I do, sir. There was a Colonel Rendell, Mr Roland Kelsey, Major Nigel Toland and a Mr Carl Frampton.’ Pickard paused for a moment. ‘I seem to remember that Mr Frampton was in the navy, sir. He had two rings on his cuff but they were those wavy ones.’
‘That’s the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve,’ commented Marriott, and received a frown from Hardcastle. ‘I don’t suppose you have addresses for these gentlemen, do you, Mr Pickard?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir, and they usually pay in cash, although one or two of our patrons pay by cheque. But they’ll have been banked by now, so I can’t even tell you which banks they were drawn on. There is one thing that might help, though, sir, and you could be doing me a favour.’ Pickard opened one of the drawers of his desk and withdrew a gold cigarette case. ‘Colonel Rendell left this on his table when he and the young lady left. I kept a hold of it in the hope that he’d come in again, but he hasn’t. I took it round to Bow Street police station but the sergeant said he couldn’t accept it as it was mislaid on private premises.’
‘Quite correct,’ said Marriott. ‘D’you happen to recall the date Colonel Rendell left it here?’
‘Yes, I did. Because it looked valuable, I noted it in my daybook. It was Saturday the fifteenth of February last.’
‘I’ll take it and restore it to the colonel when we find him, Mr Pickard,’ said Hardcastle, making it sound as though he was doing the maître d’hôtel a favour. But, in fact, he knew that it would help him trace at least one of Lily Musgrave’s other beaux. ‘My sergeant will give you a receipt.’ He turned to Marriott. ‘Show it as a yellow metal cigarette case, not a gold one, Marriott.’
‘I know, sir,’ said Marriott wearily. He tired of the DDI reminding him of basic police duty as though he were a probationer uniformed constable, and it was difficult at times to keep the frustration from his voice.
‘Thank you for your assistance, Mr Pickard,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
‘As a matter of interest, Inspector,’ Pickard began hesitantly, ‘has something happened to this young lady?’
‘We hope not, Mr Pickard, but she’s gone missing and I’ve been given the job of finding out where she’s gone.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Is there any way that I can assist?’
‘Perhaps so. If she comes in here at any time in the future, I’d be obliged if you’d telephone my police station. Discreetly, of course. Sergeant Marriott will give you the number to ring.’
‘Certainly, sir. I hope no harm’s come to her. She’s a pretty little lass and lively, too.’
Following their usual liquid lunch in the Red Lion in Derby Gate, Hardcastle and Marriott returned to the police station.
‘What are you proposing to do next, sir?’ asked Marriott once he and Hardcastle were in the DDI’s office.
‘I think we’ll send for Captain the Honourable Oscar Lucas and find out what the hell he’s playing at. We still have to consider the matter of him carrying a minor off somewhere for a dirty weekend, which might have been against the young lady’s will. After all, why tell us he stayed in London when he took the young woman to Epsom?’ The DDI smiled archly. ‘I think we’ll need to remind him about the Offences Against the Person Act. And at some time in the near future we’ll have few words with Major Quilter. If he thinks he can have one over on Ernie Hardcastle, he’s very much mistaken.’
Detective Constable Henry Catto burst into the DDI’s office. ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he gasped.
‘What the blue blazes are you all in a two-and-eight about, Catto? And how many times do I have to tell you to knock before you come into my office? If Sergeant Marriott can knock, I’m bloody sure you can afford me the privilege.’
‘Sorry, sir, but I thought you’d want to know straight off as it’s urgent.’
‘Are you going to impart this urgent information, Catto, or is it so important that you’re going to keep it a secret?’
‘Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. Mr Musgrave just telephoned the station officer to say that Miss Musgrave has returned home.’
‘What time?’
‘Last night at about eight o’clock, sir.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Hardcastle.
‘Last night at about—’
‘All right, Catto, I heard you the first time,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘To think that man is a member of parliament, Marriott. He needs few lessons in manners. Who the hell does he think he is?’ Hardcastle, red in the face, took out his pipe and began to fill it. But such was his anger with Austen Musgrave that he stuffed the tobacco in so tightly that it would not draw properly and he had to empty the bowl and start to fill it again. ‘What are you waiting for, Catto? Get about your duties.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Relieved, Catto fled.
‘That looks like the end of the enquiry, sir.’
‘Far from it, Marriott, far from it.’ Hardcastle lit his pipe and gazed thoughtfully at the wall above Marriott’s head. ‘I’ll send for Lily Musgrave and see what that young minx has to say.’
‘Do you intend to interview her on her own, sir? As you said, she is a minor.’
‘I’ll get Bertha Cartwright to sit in on the interview. That’ll keep young Miss Musgrave from coming the artful. Bertha doesn’t suffer scatter-brained little hussies like Lily Musgrave.’ Hardcastle smiled. ‘Fetch Catto back in here, Marriott.’
‘Sir?’ Catto hovered in the doorway a minute later.
‘Come in, Catto. I’m not going to eat you.’
‘Sir.’ Catto moved closer to the DDI’s desk, giving the impression that he was about to be reprimanded for some grave omission.
‘D’you know where Vincent Square is, lad?’
‘Yes, sir, it’s where the nurses’ homes are.’
Hardcastle nodded thoughtfully. ‘It comes as no surprise that you know where they are, Catto. However, that’s not where you’re going. Take a cab and go to Mr Austen Musgrave’s residence and bring Miss Musgrave back here tout de suite. Now, is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Catto, astounded that the DDI had authorized the hiring of a cab by a detective constable.
‘And watch yourself,’ cautioned Hardcastle. ‘Miss Musgrave is an attractive young woman and I don’t want to hear of no hanky-panky between you and her in the back of that cab. And to make sure, you’ll take Keeler with you. Go!’
‘Marriott,’ said Hardcastle once Catto had left the office, ‘get on that telephone thing and tell Mr High-and-Mighty Musgrave that Catto’s on his way, and tell him I don’t want any obstruction from him. If he argues the toss about his precious daughter being brought to the police station, just mention the Commissioner’s name and tell him you’re acting on his orders.’
‘But did the Commissioner say we were to fetch Lily Musgrave here, sir?’ Marriott was disturbed by Hardcastle’s high-handed attitude, but at once sensed that the DDI was extremely annoyed at having been involved in a missing person’s enquiry – something that, quite rightly, should have been handled by the Uniform Branch.
Hardcastle glanced at his sergeant with a look of despair. ‘Sir Nevil said we were to find Lily Musgrave, Marriott. He didn’t specify how. Therefore, whatever I do, or for that matter tell you or anyone else to do, is on the Commissioner’s orders.’
‘Even so, sir, don’t you think that I should have gone, rather than sending a detective constable?’
&nbs
p; ‘Certainly not, Marriott. I don’t send first-class sergeants on errands of that nature. In the meantime, I’m going across the road to see Mr Wensley. It’s time the Commissioner was told what sort of questionable friend he’s got in Austen Musgrave.’
EIGHT
When he was not in the presence of the DDI, Henry Catto was full of confidence and an extremely proficient detective. Basil Keeler, on the other hand, tended to be in a state of nervousness most of the time.
‘How are we going to tackle this, Henry?’ Keeler asked as the two detectives mounted the steps.
‘You are not going to tackle anything, Baz. Just be there and don’t say a word. I’ll do the talking.’
‘Yes? What is it?’ The supercilious expression on the butler’s face implied that the two police officers standing on the doorstep were itinerant salesmen, possibly hawking insurance.
‘You must be Crabb the butler,’ said Catto.
‘Er, yes, I am.’ Catto’s refusal to be cowed by Crabb’s attitude disconcerted the butler. ‘And who might you be?’ he added, recovering a little of the bombast he assumed when dealing with those he believed to be beneath his master’s station in life, or even his own perceived standing.
‘We’re police officers and we need to see Mr Austen Musgrave. Now!’
‘I’ll enquire if the master is at home,’ said Crabb loftily, employing the euphemism that implied an interview was by no means a foregone conclusion.
‘Well, he’d better be, cully,’ said Catto as he swept off his bowler hat and pushed past a shocked Crabb, followed by an equally shocked Keeler, ‘because this is important, and we don’t have time to waste.’
Crabb hurriedly showed Catto and Keeler into the drawing room and went in search of his master.
‘Popinjay!’ muttered Catto at the butler’s retreating back.
‘He might complain about you being rude to him like that, Henry,’ said Keeler.
‘Rude?’ exclaimed Catto hotly, and began to examine the pictures and ornaments, giving the impression that he was not overawed by the obvious wealth of their owner. ‘You were witness to what I said and you’ll testify to the fact that I wasn’t at all rude.’ He glanced over his shoulder, fixing Keeler with a steely gaze.
