by Graham Ison
‘I suppose everything’s all done and dusted, sir.’
‘You suppose wrong, Marriott. I haven’t done a thing about it yet.’
‘If there’s anything I can do, sir, just say the word.’
For a long moment, Hardcastle stared at his sergeant. ‘I might just take you up on that, Marriott,’ he said.
TEN
Hardcastle could always find something to do in his office, and it was at least an hour after he had sent Marriott home that he left the police station. He then spent a frustrating twenty minutes standing on Victoria Embankment before the tram for Kennington arrived.
Consequently, it was just after eight o’clock that he put his key in the door of his house.
‘Is that you, Ernie?’
‘Yes, love. Where are you?’ Hardcastle posed the usual question and received the usual answer.
‘In the kitchen,’ said Alice Hardcastle.
Hardcastle hung up his bowler hat and Chesterfield overcoat and placed his umbrella in the stand. Pausing briefly, he checked the hall clock against his half-hunter and, satisfied that it was keeping time, put his head round the kitchen door. He knew better than to venture further when his wife was preparing the evening meal, and no longer had an excuse for doing so. The Daily Mail map of the Western Front into which Hardcastle would stick little flags indicating the movement of the opposing armies had been removed from its place near the cooker on Armistice Day.
‘Glass of sherry, love?’ Without waiting for a reply, Hardcastle walked through to the sitting room and poured a glass of Amontillado for his wife and a whisky for himself.
‘You’re early tonight, Ernie.’ Alice came into the room, gave her husband a kiss on the cheek and settled into her favourite armchair. ‘Put a bit more coal on, there’s a love,’ she said.
Using the tongs, Hardcastle, aware of the soaring cost of fuel, selected a few knobs of coal and placed them carefully on the fire. He stood up, picked up his glass and was about to take a sip when Alice spoke again.
‘I hope you haven’t forgotten that your daughter Maud is getting married a fortnight on Saturday, Ernest.’
‘I’m hardly likely to.’ The use of Hardcastle’s full name warned him that a rebuke was in the offing.
‘Have you spoken to the vicar again? Just to make sure that he knows what he’s doing.’
‘Not yet, dear, but the banns have been read.’
‘Well, Ernest, I suggest you walk down to Saint Anselm’s before you’ve got the smell of whisky on your breath and make sure that everything is in hand for the service. We don’t want any slip-ups, not with all Charles’s brother officers there. I’ve seen how it should be done in India,’ continued Alice, who was never backward in reminding Hardcastle that she had been born in Peshawar, the daughter of a sergeant in the Royal Garrison Artillery. ‘Her young man is an officer and is used to having things all shipshape and Bristol fashion.’
‘He’s in the army, not the navy,’ responded Hardcastle churlishly. ‘I have been very busy, Alice, running around on the Commissioner’s orders.’
‘Perhaps now he knows you exist, Ernie, he’ll promote you,’ replied Alice.
Not prepared to enter into a discussion about the vagaries of the promotion system in the Metropolitan Police, Hardcastle opted to walk down Kennington Road to see the vicar of St Anselm’s Church. Reluctantly, he placed his glass of whisky on the mantelshelf and returned to the hall. Donning his overcoat and bowler hat, he seized his umbrella and departed, somewhat irritably slamming the front door.
The Reverend Percy Lovejoy, vicar of St Anselm’s Church at Kennington Cross, was a ruddy-faced, jolly man of about thirty. His girth indicated that he had never gone short of food; in fact, his cassock appeared to be straining at the buttons. Shortly after taking holy orders in 1914, he had entered the Army Chaplains’ Department on the fourth of August where his ministrations as a padre had taken him right into the front-line trenches, and he had been highly respected by colonels and corporals alike.
On his release from the army at the end of the war, Lovejoy had been offered a choice of the livings of St Anselm’s in Kennington, and another in a fashionable part of Cheltenham. It was characteristic of the man that he had unhesitatingly chosen Kennington where he had established a reputation as a caring clergyman. His concern for his parishioners went far beyond that normally expected of an incumbent, and he was not afraid, literally, to get his hands dirty. Now that he was a civilian clergyman, he never mentioned his military service, and if anyone asked him what he had done in the war, he would wave a hand in the air and mutter something about his having got in everyone’s way.
‘My dear Mr Hardcastle.’ Lovejoy opened the door of the vicarage. ‘Do come in, my dear fellow.’ He conducted Hardcastle into the living room where a log fire was crackling in the hearth. ‘Let me take your hat and coat, and I’m sure you’d not be averse to a glass of whisky, eh?’
‘Very kind, Vicar,’ murmured Hardcastle.
‘A bottle of The Glenlivet recently came my way,’ said Lovejoy, adopting an innocent expression but with an impish twinkle in his eye. Having poured substantial measures of malt whisky, Lovejoy took out his pipe. He reached across to a side table and picked up a brass box bearing a likeness of Princess Mary. Thousands of such boxes had been sent to sailors and soldiers at Christmas 1914, but Lovejoy now kept tobacco in his. ‘Have a fill, my dear fellow,’ he said, handing the box to Hardcastle. ‘I know you’re a pipe-smoker.’
Once the two men were settled by the fire with their pipes well alight and they had talked about the topics of the moment, such as the conference at Versailles, rising prices and how little was being done for wounded ex-servicemen, Lovejoy poured more whisky.
‘I’m sure your good lady wanted you to make sure everything was in hand for a fortnight on Saturday, eh, Mr Hardcastle?’ Lovejoy guessed that Alice Hardcastle had sent her husband to see him with that specific instruction, despite having discussed it with Hardcastle at some length seven or eight weeks ago.
‘She was born in India of a military family, you see, Vicar. And now that young Maud is to marry an army officer, Alice is concerned that everything goes according to plan.’
‘Well, my dear fellow, you can put her mind at rest. I’ve been in touch with the bridegroom, Captain Spencer, and we talked about his brother officers wanting all that military ceremonial stuff. Well, why not? There’s not a great deal of happiness in the world right now, so why not allow them to let their hair down, eh what?’
‘I’m very pleased to hear you say that, Vicar. You know what women are like over weddings.’
‘Yes, I do.’ Lovejoy shook his head solemnly. ‘Unfortunately there aren’t too many weddings these days, and all too many funerals with all this wretched Spanish influenza. And there are an awful lot of war widows, Mr Hardcastle, and I can’t see them getting married again. The sad fact is that there aren’t enough men of marriageable age left. It’s very depressing. The powers that be came out with all this talk about a war to end all wars, and some rubbish about a land fit for heroes, but I haven’t seen any evidence of it yet. Lord Derby made all manner of promises to the chaps who were conscripted under his scheme in 1916, but he seems to have been talked out of it, presumably by Lloyd George. But then, I think it was Field Marshal Haig who said that Derby was like a feather pillow in that he bore the mark of the last person who sat on him.’
‘I couldn’t agree more, Vicar,’ said Hardcastle warmly. It was not often that he found someone who shared his views of what he perceived to be a rapidly deteriorating world. ‘Thank you for the whisky and your reassurance about the arrangements. I knew it would be all right, but Mrs Hardcastle tends to fuss over things like that.’
‘Indeed, women do, you know, but I have to say that I was agreeably impressed by your daughter and her fiancé. They seem to have their feet firmly on the ground. I understand that Miss Hardcastle nursed during the war.’
‘Yes, at Dorchester House, V
icar. That’s where she met her future husband and nursed him back to health.’
‘Excellent,’ said Lovejoy. ‘Sounds like a firm foundation for a successful marriage.’ He shook hands. ‘I’ll see you on the day, Mr Hardcastle.’
‘Yes,’ said Hardcastle. And with a wry smile, added, ‘I can’t see any way of avoiding it.’
Lovejoy threw back his head, laughing loudly. ‘I fear not,’ he said.
‘But seriously, Vicar, perhaps you would join us at the reception after the service. I’ve arranged for a bottle or two of whisky to be tucked away.’
‘I look forward to it,’ said Lovejoy.
On Friday morning, by way of a change, Hardcastle entered the police station by the front door rather than through the station yard, much to the surprise of the station officer.
‘All correct, sir,’ said the station sergeant, scrambling quickly to his feet.
‘Anything happened overnight, Higgins?’
‘A couple of drunks off Trafalgar Square, sir, and one female for soliciting prostitution in Whitehall.’
Hardcastle stopped. ‘In Whitehall?’ he exclaimed. ‘What happened – did she get lost? She should have asked a copper the way to Shepherd Market.’
‘She was trying it on with the foot-duty sentry in Horse Guards Arch, sir.’
‘They should have deemed her under the Lunacy Act,’ said Hardcastle. ‘What happened?’
‘The corporal of the guard called the PC on the beat and he nicked her.’
‘Well, I hope the station officer knew the wording of the charge.’ Hardcastle was still chuckling when he went upstairs to his office. It was almost unheard of to find prostitutes in Whitehall, especially at night when there were few people about. On the other hand, Shepherd Market on the St James’s Division was a well-known haunt of ladies of the night, as they were euphemistically known.
Passing the detectives’ office, Hardcastle shouted for Marriott.
‘Good morning, sir.’ Marriott appeared in the DDI’s doorway.
‘We’re going back to the VanDoo Club, Marriott. It’s time we put the wind up the galloping major. But we’ll go via Bow Street and get a search warrant, just in case Quilter wants to stand on ceremony.’
‘On what grounds can we apply for a search warrant, sir?’ Marriott was concerned that, one day, Hardcastle would overstep the mark and get them both into serious trouble.
‘Based on information received, I have reason to believe that Quilter is running a bawdy house, contrary to the Licensing Act 1910. There, that good enough for you, Marriott?’
‘Information received, sir?’ Marriott was certain that Hardcastle was off on one of his flights of fancy again.
‘You heard what Colonel Rendell said, Marriott, or more to the point what he didn’t say. When I asked him what happened at these parties, he clammed up. No, Marriott, there’s something fishy going on at the VanDoo Club and I intend to find out what it is.’
‘But shouldn’t we leave that to Mr Sullivan of C Division, sir?’
‘I don’t think so, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, just managing to restrain himself from criticizing a senior officer to a junior one. ‘Fetch Wood in here.’
‘Sir?’ Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood had been a policeman very nearly as long as Hardcastle. He was a year away from his pension, had neither hope nor desire for further promotion and the DDI did not frighten him.
‘Round up a couple of DCs, Wood, and station yourselves within shouting distance of the VanDoo Club in Rupert Street by half past ten, but discreetly, mind. I might be executing a search warrant on the premises if the owner don’t play ball. You can hang about in Rupert Street until Sergeant Marriott calls you. I might not need you, but at least it’ll put the wind up the local villains.’
It was close to eleven o’clock by the time that Hardcastle, armed with a search warrant, and Marriott arrived at the VanDoo Club. This time the front door was locked. Hardcastle hammered on it repeatedly with the crook of his umbrella.
A surly individual, at least sixty years of age with wispy grey hair barely covering his head and wearing a waistcoat and a green baize apron, eventually opened the door.
‘We ain’t open,’ he said and attempted to slam the door.
‘Police,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and you’re open to me.’ With that he shoved open the door, striking the retainer and almost knocking him to the floor. ‘Where’s Quilter?’ he demanded once the retainer had recovered.
‘In his office,’ said the man churlishly, and disappeared.
‘I don’t think he likes the police, Marriott. Something tells me he’s got a bit of form.’
The two detectives mounted the flight of stairs and pushed open the door of the owner’s office. Quilter had his back to the door and was holding a young woman in a tight embrace. She looked no older than twenty, but Hardcastle would readily admit that it was difficult to guess a woman’s age now that they had developed the habit of plastering their face with the new cosmetics.
The woman tensed at the arrival of the two men and Quilter swung round, an angry expression on his face at the intrusion.
‘I thought I told you—’ And then, recognizing Hardcastle, said, ‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector. I didn’t know you were coming this morning.’
‘That’s because I didn’t tell Station Sergeant Goddard so that he could forewarn you, Major.’ Hardcastle had already formed the opinion that Goddard was not to be trusted, and was certain that he was accepting bribes.
‘I’ll telephone you later, Diane,’ said Quilter, turning back to the woman. ‘Now run along, there’s a good girl.’
Once Diane had departed, Quilter faced the detectives. ‘This is rather inconvenient, Inspector,’ he began.
‘Yes,’ said Hardcastle, ‘I can see that.’
‘It would have been better if you’d telephoned to make an appointment.’
‘I’ve no doubt,’ said Hardcastle, sitting down uninvited in one of Quilter’s chairs, ‘but it’s not my practice to give advance notice to people whose premises I’m about to search on a warrant.’
‘What?’ Quilter was genuinely shocked. ‘A warrant? Why on earth would you want to search my club?’
‘On suspicion of running a bawdy house, Major, or in plain language, a brothel.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. What possible evidence do you have?’
‘That’s what I’m here for, Major. To find some evidence. On the other hand,’ Hardcastle continued, taking out his pipe and slowly filling it, ‘you could make it easy on yourself by telling me everything I want to know.’
‘I think I need a drink,’ said Quilter, crossing to a cabinet and pouring himself a stiff whisky. He held up the bottle. ‘Can I interest you gentlemen?’
‘No, thank you.’ Hardcastle had a strict rule: he would take a whisky from anyone except a suspect and, right now, Quilter fell into that category.
‘Well, what it is you want to know, Inspector?’ asked Quilter, lighting a cigarette.
‘It has come to my notice,’ Hardcastle began pompously, ‘that Lily Musgrave has been providing some form of entertainment to a group of men, including you,’ he added, taking a guess, ‘all of whom are members of this establishment. My informant refused to say what form this entertainment took, so I can only conclude that something immoral is going on. And that makes it an offence.’
‘What are you driving at?’ asked Quilter nervously. It was obvious from his demeanour that he had something to hide.
‘If I find that’s the case, you’ll be prosecuted and this tawdry establishment will be shut down.’
Quilter emitted a sigh and poured himself another whisky. ‘I can assure you that everyone, including the girl, was a willing participant.’
‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on, Quilter, or do I have to call up the three police officers I’ve got nearby so they can take this place apart? You could start by telling me where I can find these men.’ Hardcastle turned. ‘Read out them names, Marriott.
’ He had already briefed his sergeant to include the name of Colonel Rendell, not wishing to indicate that he had already interviewed him, for fear that Quilter would recognize him as the informant.
‘Colonel Rendell, Roland Kelsey, Major Toland, Captain Lucas and Carl Frampton.’ Marriott closed his pocketbook and looked up.
‘Good God! How on earth did you find that out, Inspector?’
‘Because I’m a detective, Quilter.’ Hardcastle glanced at his sergeant. ‘I think you’d better get the other officers in, Marriott. It looks as though we’re going to have to do a proper search.’ Turning back to Quilter, he said, ‘I don’t think we’ll be finished in time for you to open up tonight, Major.’
‘All right. All right.’ Quilter held up a placating hand. ‘Each week we take it in turns for one of our group to give Lily dinner at one of the best West End restaurants. Then we all gather at one of our group’s houses and Lily does an act for us.’
‘What sort of an act?’ asked Marriott.
There was a pause before Quilter answered. ‘She stands on a table and slowly undresses,’ he said diffidently.
‘I presume she finishes up naked?’ said Hardcastle.
‘Of course.’ Quilter gave a rueful grin.
‘And where does this sordid business take place?’ asked Hardcastle, making no secret of his distaste at what he considered to be the excesses of the upper classes.
There was a pause, and then, ‘At Tom Rendell’s place.’
‘And where is that?’ asked Hardcastle, feigning innocence.
‘Old Queen Street.’
‘And the other names? They are all involved, are they?’
‘Yes, they are, Inspector. But the girl’s quite willing so it’s not an offence, is it?’
Hardcastle could not immediately think of any crime that had been committed. In law, the girl was old enough not to come within the compass of legislation affecting children and young persons. It was not a public performance, and it would be difficult to prove that Lily Musgrave was being paid for her performance, even though there was little doubt that her reward was a slap-up dinner at the best the West End had to offer in the way of fine dining. But he was not prepared to give up yet.
