Hardcastle's Runaway

by Graham Ison

  When the door had closed behind Lily Musgrave, Hardcastle turned to the matron. ‘Well, Mrs Cartwright, what did you think of her?’

  ‘A right brazen little hussy, sir, who could do with being put over someone’s knee and given a good spanking. I really don’t know what the world’s coming to.’

  ‘I’m still not satisfied she’s telling the truth, though,’ commented Hardcastle, half to himself. ‘I still think I’ll speak to these beaux she’s been giving her favours to.’

  NINE

  Detective Superintendent Frederick Wensley was standing at the window of his office, staring at the half-built County Hall on the other side of the river Thames. Construction of the building had begun in 1909 but ceased in 1916 because of a shortage of materials and manpower, both of which had been caused by the war.

  Wensley turned as Hardcastle knocked and entered. ‘I see they’ve started work on the new County Hall again, Ernie.’

  ‘I wonder what that’ll cost the taxpayer, sir.’

  Wensley laughed; Hardcastle’s reputation for parsimony was well known among officers of the Criminal Investigation Department. ‘I’m sure you haven’t come over to discuss the cost of building the County Hall, Ernie. What’s on your mind?’

  Hardcastle told Wensley about his interviews with Quilter, Lucas and Lily Musgrave, and the information he had obtained from Pickard, the maître d’hôtel at Bellini’s. And he explained where he thought Sarah Gillard fitted into the Musgrave ménage, not that that was particularly relevant. ‘So it looks like the end of the matter, sir, unless the girl runs off again, I suppose. Nevertheless, I will have a word with the men who’ve befriended her, just in case there’s evidence of a breach of the Offences Against the Person Act. However, Lily denied that she had been taken anywhere by force and admitted knowing she’d have to pay for her dinner by going to bed with her benefactors, which she did willingly. Given those facts, I think we’d have a job convincing a jury.’

  ‘I agree, Ernie. I’ll let the Commissioner know the outcome and we’ll write it off. Incidentally, Sir Nevil was grateful for the information about Austen Musgrave. He hadn’t any idea about the man’s dubious background and apparently had met him at his club.’ Wensley sighed. ‘The trouble is that Sir Nevil is an officer and a gentleman, Ernie, and takes people on trust, unlike the sort of nasty cynical coppers you and I are.’

  ‘I’ll let you have a written report, sir,’ said Hardcastle, standing up. ‘And I’ll inform you of anything of interest that comes up as a result of my interviews with the girl’s men friends.’

  ‘Have you got much on at the moment?’ asked Wensley. He was not checking up on Hardcastle; he knew he was a dedicated policeman but was always interested in the workload of his detectives.

  ‘Not on the crime front, sir, but my youngest daughter’s wedding is looming.’

  ‘Expensive business,’ said Wensley, but added nothing further. His only daughter had married recently, lifting the spirits of a family that was still grieving the loss of two sons killed in the war.

  Having decided to interview Captain Oscar Lucas once more, Hardcastle and Marriott took a cab to the In and Out Club in Piccadilly.

  The green-liveried club servant regarded the two detectives critically. ‘How may I be of assistance, Inspector?’

  ‘I need to see Captain Lucas again,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘I’ll see if he is in the club,’ said the servant.

  ‘His car’s there,’ said Hardcastle, waving his umbrella at the maroon Lagonda coupé parked in the courtyard.

  ‘That’s as maybe, but members sometimes leave their cars here and take a cab to go out for lunch. However, if you wait in the reception room, I’ll see if the captain’s prepared to see you.’

  ‘Pompous arse,’ muttered Hardcastle and, followed by Marriott, plonked himself down on one of the uncomfortable sofas with which the reception room was furnished.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you again, Inspector.’ Oscar Lucas appeared almost immediately. So quickly, in fact, that he must have seen the two detectives being shown into the reception room.

  ‘I don’t suppose you did,’ said Hardcastle without bothering to stand up. ‘Take a seat and explain why you’ve been lying to me.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Hardcastle sighed. ‘Captain Lucas, I didn’t come up the Clyde on a bicycle.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Lucas shook his head in bewilderment.

  ‘What my inspector means, Captain Lucas, is that when we spoke to you the day before yesterday,’ said Marriott, glancing down at his pocketbook, ‘you stated that you and Miss Lily Musgrave spent the previous weekend at your father’s apartment at Albany in Piccadilly and dined in various London restaurants.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We interviewed Miss Musgrave yesterday and she told us that she had spent the weekend with you at your father’s stables at Epsom.’ Marriott’s statement was not entirely accurate, but Lily had been caught out when she admitted only ever spending one weekend with Lucas. It followed, therefore, that it must have been at the Epsom stables of Lord Slade.

  ‘And you believe her?’ Lucas was not giving in easily.

  ‘Yes, we do,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Apart from that, it seemed to be common knowledge around Epsom, particularly in the Spread Eagle pub.’

  ‘I see. Well, it’s not a crime, is it?’

  ‘To quote the Offences Against the Person Act, Captain Lucas,’ said Marriott, picking up the interview again, ‘if you abducted Miss Musgrave with the intent of carnally knowing her, then yes, it is a crime that carries a penalty of five years’ imprisonment. And she has admitted having sexual intercourse with you.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Sergeant, she was a willing partner.’ Lucas’s face began working and he started to shake. It was not clear whether it was the thoroughness of the police investigation into the matter and the threat of imprisonment or a renewal of the shell shock from which he was said to suffer. ‘It was an innocent couple of days. She knew why she was coming down to Epsom.’ A sudden thought occurred to the young ex-officer. ‘I say, my father doesn’t have to know about this, does he? He’d play merry hell if he found out.’

  ‘We won’t tell him,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but it might be a good idea to bribe the head stable lad to keep his trap shut.’

  ‘So it was him who told you, was it?’

  ‘No,’ said Hardcastle, never willing to divulge the name of an informant, ‘but I presume there is a head stable lad and they always seem to know everything. However, on another matter,’ he continued, satisfied that Lucas had not committed any offence, ‘perhaps you can tell me where I can find Colonel Rendell and Major Toland.’ The question was posed in an offhand manner, giving the impression there was no doubt that the two men named by Pickard at Bellini’s as dinner companions of Lily were friends of Lucas.

  ‘I, er, well, Tom Rendell is a member here but I haven’t seen him today.’

  ‘Where does he live?’ demanded Hardcastle, pressing home the advantage gained by his guesswork.

  ‘Somewhere in Old Queen Street, I think, but I’m not too sure,’ said Lucas. ‘It’s just off Birdcage Walk.’

  ‘I know where it is,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘Old Queen Street is on my division.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone by the name of Major Toland, though.’ But Lucas looked away from the DDI when he said it. ‘As a matter of interest, why d’you want to talk to Tom Rendell?’

  ‘A cigarette case of his has come into the possession of police and I have to return it to him,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘I could do that for you,’ said Lucas. It could have been a helpful offer on his part or a device to stop the police from speaking to Rendell. If it was the latter, it was to no avail.

  ‘If you have written authority to receive any goods on behalf of Colonel Rendell, Captain Lucas,’ said Hardcastle, ‘I’ll be happy to hand it over. To do otherwise would be contrary to police regulations. I’m sure you ca
me across similar rules in the army,’ he added smoothly.

  ‘Oh, I see. Yes, of course.’

  ‘Come, Marriott, we’ve wasted enough time.’

  Ignoring the doorkeeper, who had the courtesy to open the door for them, Hardcastle, with Marriott rushing behind him, strode out to Piccadilly, where he hailed a cab.

  ‘Are we going straight to Old Queen Street, sir?’ asked a breathless Marriott. It was an unwise question.

  Hardcastle paused, his foot on the step of the cab. ‘What, and go without our usual lunchtime pint? Are you feeling all right, Marriott?’

  The cab deposited the two detectives in Parliament Street and they descended to the downstairs bar of the Red Lion in Derby Gate.

  Marriott had sent DC Keeler to examine the electoral roll at the public library in Great Smith Street. It was the quickest way of discovering where in Old Queen Street Colonel Thomas Rendell resided. This proposal was, of course, based on the assumption that Colonel Rendell was registered to vote, although he may have been renting the apartment and was registered elsewhere, or even not registered at all. However, on this occasion, the detectives were in luck.

  Consequently, it was nigh-on three o’clock when Hardcastle and Marriott knocked on the door of Rendell’s apartment.

  Hardcastle had a preconceived idea of what colonels should look like, based mainly on his professional dealings with Lieutenant Colonel Ralph Frobisher, the assistant provost marshal for London District. However, the youthful man who answered the door of Rendell’s apartment was probably thirty years of age at most. Tall and clean-shaven, he had the smooth appearance of a matinee idol rather than that of a soldier. Upon reflection, Hardcastle realized that he was probably one of those officers who had benefited, if that was the right word, from the death in action of his superiors. From about 1916 onwards, young men had been rapidly promoted and there were even one or two brigadier-generals who had yet to reach the age of thirty-five.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ The man cast a quizzical gaze over the two detectives, wondering who they were and why they were there. He did not have long to wait.

  ‘Colonel Rendell?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Colonel Rendell.’

  ‘We’re police officers, Colonel. I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’

  ‘Really? Well, I don’t know why you should want to speak to me but you’d better come in.’

  The sitting room of the apartment was impeccably clean and tidy, as befitted a soldier, and for that same reason was somewhat spartan in furnishing. There were a number of leather armchairs, a low table upon which were copies of Illustrated London News and The Field neatly arranged. The walls had numerous pictures, including some paintings, most of which depicted horses in hunting scenes.

  ‘Are you a hunting man, Inspector?’ enquired Rendell, having noticed the DDI’s interest in the pictures.

  ‘Alas, Colonel, I don’t have the time,’ said Hardcastle, as though it was a matter for regret.

  It was a comment that caused Marriott to turn away and grit his teeth for fear of bursting out laughing. The thought of a red-coated Hardcastle riding to hounds was too much to contemplate.

  ‘You’d better take a pew and tell me what this is all about.’ Rendell settled himself in one of the armchairs, crossed his legs and appeared perfectly relaxed.

  By way of a reply, Hardcastle took out the cigarette case that had been handed to him by the maître d’hôtel at Bellini’s and placed it on the table.

  ‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Rendell. ‘I never thought I’d see that again. It was with me all through the war, only for me to lose it a couple of weeks ago. Where did you find it?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Hardcastle. ‘It was the maître d’hôtel at Bellini’s who found it. You left it on the table after you’d had dinner there.’

  ‘Oh, how super. I shall reward him next time I’m there,’ said Rendell, leaning forward and picking up the case. ‘It was a gift from my late father.’ He glanced at Hardcastle. ‘He was in the regiment, too,’ he added.

  ‘Are you still in the army, Colonel?’

  ‘No, I’ve finished with all that, thank God.’

  ‘I understand you dined with Miss Lily Musgrave on that occasion, Colonel. It was the fifteenth of February last.’

  Rendell suddenly tensed. ‘What exactly is this all about, Inspector? I’m sure a divisional detective inspector doesn’t usually go about restoring lost property.’

  ‘How old d’you think Miss Musgrave is, Colonel?’

  Rendell glanced at Marriott and then back again to Hardcastle. ‘Has this got to the point when I should have my solicitor present?’ he asked.

  ‘Have you committed a crime, then?’ enquired Hardcastle blandly.

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder.’

  ‘I’ll ask you again, Colonel. How old d’you think Miss Musgrave is?’

  ‘She told me that she was twenty-one on her last birthday.’

  ‘Would it surprise you to know that she is seventeen, Colonel?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Ye Gods!’ exclaimed Rendell. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘I can assure you she is,’ Marriott continued. ‘We have that assurance from Mr Austen Musgrave who, as you probably know, is a member of parliament.’

  ‘He’s even being tipped for a Cabinet post,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Ye Gods!’ said Rendell again, and pushed a hand through his hair. ‘I didn’t even know her surname was Musgrave, otherwise it would have rung a bell immediately. If I remember correctly, Musgrave was responsible for the manufacture of somewhat inferior quality uniforms.’

  ‘Yes, I believe he was a manufacturer of army clothing,’ said Hardcastle, unwilling to be committed on the matter of the quality of his merchandise. ‘How did you meet Miss Musgrave, Colonel?’

  ‘At the VanDoo Club,’ said Rendell promptly. ‘It’s in Rupert Street.’

  ‘Yes, I know where it is. Presumably you were introduced to this young lady by Max Quilter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you ever spent a weekend away with this young woman?’

  ‘No,’ said Rendell, but it was unconvincing. ‘Even supposing I had, there’s nothing wrong in that, surely?’

  ‘It depends how willing she was,’ said Marriott. ‘You see, Colonel, my inspector is pursuing the possibility that this young woman was deluded into spending weekends with men much older than herself, unaware that their intention was to have sexual intercourse with her. Or as the statute puts it: to carnally know her.’

  Rendell remained silent for a few moments, his chin touching his chest as he gave the matter considerable thought and wondered whether he really should contact his solicitor. But eventually, he made a decision.

  ‘I’d better tell you all about it, I suppose.’

  ‘That would be a start,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to tell me that I don’t have to say anything if I don’t want to, Inspector? I’m sure I read an article in The Times about some new rule that’s been introduced.’

  ‘There’s no need to worry about that, Colonel.’ Hardcastle did not understand the so-called ‘Judges’ Rules’ that had recently been introduced or the need for them, and therefore, typically, ignored them.

  Rendell sighed. ‘We have these parties every once in a while, usually on a Saturday, Inspector. We take it in turns to escort Lily to a slap-up dinner somewhere up West, and then she, er, entertains us.’

  ‘What form does this entertainment take, Colonel?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Who else is at these parties, as you call them?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Why? Are you all in disguise?’ asked Hardcastle sarcastically.

  ‘I’m not revealing the identity of the other guests. I’m sorry, but that’s that.’

  ‘Let me hazard a guess, Colonel,’ said Marriott, fearing that the D
DI was about to lose his temper. ‘A Mr Kelsey, Major Toland and Carl Frampton. Frampton is, or was, in the navy.’

  ‘I’m not saying anything.’ But Rendell’s expression told Marriott that he had confirmed the identity of at least some of the ‘guests’ at these mysterious parties.

  ‘Very well, Colonel.’ Hardcastle stood up, aware that he was unlikely to get anything else out of the ex-officer. ‘We’ll meet again, I think.’

  ‘We’ll walk back to the nick, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle once he and Marriott were once more in the street. ‘I need to clear my head.’

  Hardcastle was piqued, to say the least, by Colonel Rendell’s refusal to divulge the names of the others who enjoyed Lily Musgrave’s entertainment, whatever form that took. Marriott took a more reasonable view, in that Rendell was quite within his rights to refuse to identify his fellow guests. It could hardly be construed as obstructing police. At least, not yet.

  But Hardcastle, on occasions such as this, tended to behave like a dog with a bone, and would continue to worry it even though it was clear that there was no meat left on it. He did not intend to give up.

  ‘I think we’ll get a search warrant for the VanDoo Club, Marriott. Draw up an information and I’ll swear it tomorrow morning at Bow Street.’

  ‘Is that wise, sir?’

  ‘Rendell refused to give any more information and that leads me to think they’re up to no good. Wherever these parties take place, it could be termed a brothel, a house of ill repute. I’ll not leave it, Marriott. I’m not having these toffee-nosed ex-officers running rings round me. However, I’ll review the situation tomorrow. Go home, Marriott, and my regards to Mrs Marriott.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said a relieved Marriott. ‘And mine to Mrs H.’

  ‘And now I have a real problem on my hands,’ muttered Hardcastle, half to himself.

  ‘A problem, sir?’ queried Marriott.

  ‘I’ve got to organize Maud’s wedding. She’s getting spliced on the twenty-second of this month and that’s only a fortnight on Saturday.’