Hardcastle's Soldiers

by Graham Ison

  ‘Most kind,’ murmured Hardcastle, and he and Marriott rose to follow the RSM into the dining room.

  They had just finished the main course, and were about to embark on the dessert, when Sergeant Webster returned.

  ‘I’ve just had a word with Stacey, sir, and he says that he thinks he had his keys swiped about the same time as he lost his cap, although he can’t remember exactly when he noticed they was gone. Does that make sense to you, sir?’

  ‘Thank you, Sarn’t Webster,’ said the RSM, without answering the RP sergeant’s question. ‘You can go and get your pint now.’ As Webster left, Punchard turned to the DDI. ‘Well, there you have it, Mr Hardcastle, but how does that help?’

  ‘It means,’ said Hardcastle, as he polished off the last of the excellent plum duff pudding that the sergeants’ mess cook had prepared, ‘that someone in this barracks was able to enter the room where Stacey was quartered, and nick his keys, and, by the looks of it, a tunic and a pair of trousers. I reckon he also had the lad’s cap from the boozer they were in. And that that someone then went on to murder the cashier at Victoria Station, and top the prostitute in Kingston. All I need to know is who could have left the barracks last Wednesday, carry out two murders, and his absence wouldn’t have been noticed.’

  Punchard led the way back to the anteroom, and, without asking the detectives if they wanted any, ordered three glasses of Cockburn’s old port which, Hardcastle knew, cost at least three shillings a bottle. ‘It’s not that easy, Mr Hardcastle,’ he said, answering the DDI’s last question. ‘As I said, last time you was here, we’ve got nigh-on a thousand men under training here.’

  ‘Would any of them be able to disappear for twenty-four hours without being noticed?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Punchard vehemently, as though the suggestion were a slight on his professional competence. ‘But there’s the permanent staff to consider.’ He paused in thought for a moment or two, calculating. ‘There’s some forty-six officers, plus numerous warrant officers, sergeants and corporals. And there are a few private soldiers in the stores and elsewhere. All in all, you’re probably looking at nigh-on two hundred personnel who can more or less come and go as they please when they’re not on duty.’

  ‘Ye Gods!’ exclaimed Hardcastle, as he grasped the full impact of the daunting task now facing him. ‘I wonder if it’s possible to narrow it down a bit.’

  ‘How?’ Punchard took a sip of his port.

  ‘To those who would have legitimate access to the barrack room where Stacey, Ash and Joliffe were billeted. That’d be a start.’

  RSM Punchard lit his pipe, and gave the question some thought before replying. ‘Well,’ he began slowly, ‘there’s the colonel. He can go anywhere, as can the second-in-command and the adjutant.’ He smiled. ‘And I can go anywhere, too, Mr Hardcastle. Then there are B Company’s officers. That’s the company that Stacey’s in. There’s the company commander, and his second-in-command. Added to that, there are the company sarn’t-major, a platoon commander, a platoon sergeant, and his corporal deputy. But quite frankly any of the permanent staff can more or less go anywhere without question.’

  Hardcastle took out his pipe, and began slowly to fill it as he mulled over the problem facing him. ‘I think we can rule out the colonel, and probably the more senior officers, but that’s about all.’ Taking out a box of Swan Vestas matches, he lit his pipe, drawing on it with a degree of satisfaction. ‘Would you know if any revolvers are missing, Mr Punchard?’

  ‘Revolvers.’ The RSM savoured the word. ‘The only people issued with revolvers are the officers, the regimental policemen, and one or two animal transport personnel. But what has that to do with your case?’

  Hardcastle explained about the army revolver that had been used to strike Herbert Somers, and cause his death. ‘It was left at the scene,’ he added.

  ‘How very careless,’ said Punchard, to whom the loss of a firearm came third only after mutiny and desertion in the face of the enemy. ‘I could make some enquiries of the armourer, but it could take some time. It would mean an inventory check, and asking all the officers to produce their weapons.’

  ‘I don’t really see any other way round it,’ mused Hardcastle.

  ‘I’d have to get the colonel’s permission, of course,’ said the RSM. ‘But then he’d have to know you’d been down here talking to me. And I gather you wouldn’t want him to know that.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment or two. ‘Might I make a suggestion, Mr Hardcastle?’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Punchard. Anything that might help.’

  ‘If that request – a perfectly legitimate one in the circumstances – were made by a military police officer, the colonel wouldn’t be able to refuse.’

  ‘Good,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’ll have a word with Captain McIntyre directly.’

  ‘It’s possible, though, isn’t it, Mr Punchard,’ said Marriott, ‘that the theft of the tunic and the trousers was coincidental? I recall that Captain McIntyre said something about soldiers not hesitating to steal military property, but fought shy of taking personal possessions.’

  ‘Very true, Sarn’t Marriott, very true.’ Punchard stood up. ‘I’ll arrange for some transport to Salamanca Barracks where Captain McIntyre has his office.’

  ‘Most grateful,’ murmured Hardcastle.

  ‘I didn’t realize that you were coming back today, Inspector,’ said McIntyre. ‘I’d’ve arranged to have you met at the station.’

  Hardcastle waved a hand of dismissal. ‘We took a taxi,’ he said, without disclosing that the taxi had taken him and Marriott to Buller Barracks in order to speak to RSM Punchard. ‘Didn’t want to trouble you.’

  ‘Well, now you’re here, what can I do for you?’

  Hardcastle explained, once again, about the revolver that had been used to bludgeon Herbert Somers to death, and went on to expand his theory that the murderer was, in his view, someone with access to Buller Barracks, and to B Company’s lines in particular.

  ‘I’d like to be satisfied that none of the officers, or anyone else who’s been issued with a revolver, were responsible.’

  ‘You want me to check the sidearms of every officer at Buller Barracks, Inspector?’ asked McIntyre incredulously.

  ‘Thank you, Captain, that would be most helpful,’ said Hardcastle, cunningly choosing to take McIntyre’s question for a statement of intent.

  ‘It’s a bit of a tall order,’ said McIntyre. ‘I’d have to get Colonel Fuller’s permission.’

  ‘Of course,’ murmured Hardcastle. ‘Perhaps you’d explain to the colonel that to do it the gentleman’s way would be better than obtaining a search warrant from the Bow Street magistrate.’ But the DDI did not, for one moment, imagine that the Chief Metropolitan Magistrate would grant a warrant to search the whole of Buller Barracks. But he was betting that McIntyre, with his comparatively limited knowledge of criminal law, would not know that.

  ‘Mmm!’ McIntyre fingered his moustache. ‘Are you suggesting that an officer carried out this murder?’

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ exclaimed Hardcastle, who had not dismissed the possibility, ‘but maybe that one of the officers had his revolver stolen.’

  ‘But such a loss would have been reported immediately, Inspector. It would be most unusual for something like that to go astray.’

  ‘Well, a cap, a tunic, and a pair of trousers did,’ commented Hardcastle drily. ‘I think it was you who said that military property was fair game for a thief, but a thief would never take a soldier’s personal belongings.’

  McIntyre dithered. Whatever powers he might possess as an officer in the military police, he would not wish to upset a colonel whose co-operation he might need in the future. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Inspector,’ he said with a sigh.

  ‘I’m much obliged, Captain McIntyre,’ said Hardcastle. ‘By the way,’ he continued, forbearing to mention his conversation with RSM Punchard, ‘there’s no need to ask Stacey if he lost any keys. I’ve decided that they d
on’t have any bearing on my enquiries.’ He pulled out his watch, glanced at it, gave it a brief wind, and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket. ‘We’ll not waste any more of your time. Must get back to the Smoke. There are things to do.’

  ‘It’s a bloody quandary, Marriott, and no mistake.’ A frustrated Hardcastle took off his spats and shoes, and began to massage his feet. ‘We’re having to wait for the damned army to get its act together at every turn.’

  Marriott could not but agree with his chief. ‘I wonder if Mr Fitnam’s made any progress, sir,’ he said, and immediately regretted it. He knew what would happen next. But he was irritated at Hardcastle’s habit of massaging his feet, and had spoken without thinking. Had Hardcastle not been the DDI, Marriott would have suggested that he consulted a chiropodist as clearly he had something wrong with his feet.

  Hardcastle took out his watch and glanced at it, before dropping it back into his waistcoat pocket. ‘Probably not, but it’s time we paid him a visit, Marriott. I suppose we ought to let him know what progress we’ve made. Which is damn all.’ He replaced his shoes, and buckled on his spats.

  To Marriott, it appeared that there was little need to go to Wandsworth, but he knew that, being unable to further his enquiries, the DDI would only sit and fret. And that meant that he would start looking round the detectives’ office for something to do. And that usually spelled trouble.

  Arthur Fitnam, the divisional detective inspector of V Division, looked distinctly glum as Hardcastle and Marriott entered his office.

  ‘If you’ve come to ask me if I’ve caught the bugger, Ernie, the answer’s no. How are you getting on with your topping?’

  Hardcastle related what he had learned so far, which, as he had told Marriott, was very little. ‘I’m certain that someone in that barracks was responsible, Arthur,’ he said, and went on to tell the V Division DDI about his discussion with RSM Punchard.

  ‘It seems that almost any one of about twelve hundred assorted soldiers could have done it, Arthur, and I’m not too happy about Punchard’s claim that none of the recruits was responsible. It’s all very well him saying that he’d know if any of the recruits went adrift, but I’m not so sure. Would you know where every one of twelve hundred constables were at any given time?’

  ‘More than likely half of them would be in a boozer somewhere, I expect, Ernie,’ said Fitnam cynically.

  ‘Well, I’m damned sure I wouldn’t know.’ Hardcastle had started to look as gloomy as the V Division DDI.

  ‘I don’t envy you the task, Ernie,’ said Fitnam. ‘I was hoping you’d nicked the bloke, because I’m sure that you’d have solved my problem at the same time.’

  ‘Did you get any fingerprints from the van that your murderer abandoned?’

  ‘Yes, we got some, but none that mean anything. Charlie Collins reckons they’re probably Stacey’s anyway. But that doesn’t mean that he killed Ivy Huggins, because any smart barrister will say Stacey had legitimate access to the vehicle. Even though Stacey’s been in the army for a few months, Charlie says that they’ve found prints years later. Anyway, you’ve rowed him out of it.’ Fitnam pulled a file across his desk, and thumbed through a few folios. ‘The blood on the knife that was found in the van matches Ivy Huggins’s blood group, but that’s no good until we find out who wielded the weapon. Not that it will help much: she was blood group O, the commonest type. There were some fingerprints on the knife, too. Unfortunately, Charlie Collins said that they don’t match any in his collection, but they do tally with some of those in the van. In fact, Collins said that there are two different sets in the van, so I reckon one set are Stacey’s and the other our murderer’s. There was a glimmer of hope, though, for both of us, I suppose. Collins said that some of the prints in the van match those he found on the revolver that was left at your scene. But until we catch the bugger and take his prints, we shan’t know.’ He pushed the file away. ‘I suppose that officer who saw your murderer running away couldn’t give a better description, could he, Ernie?’

  ‘All he said was that he only really saw the back of him, as he ran off, Arthur,’ said Hardcastle, and paused in thought. ‘But he must’ve seen his face because he said he challenged the man for not saluting, and then he ran away. And he couldn’t’ve saluted him with his back to him, anyway. Although, right now, I wouldn’t put anything past the army.’

  ‘Perhaps we could try speaking to Lieutenant Mansfield again, sir,’ suggested Marriott. ‘Now he’s had time to think about it, he might’ve remembered something.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I suppose it’s worth a try. We haven’t got anything else.’

  ‘I was wondering if we could get someone to take Stacey’s fingerprints, Ernie,’ said Fitnam. ‘At least it would eliminate some of those found in the van.’

  ‘Good idea, Arthur. Have a word with Captain McIntyre. He’s the military police officer at Aldershot who’s been helping me. In a manner of speaking. Marriott will give you his telephone number. Not that he’s been much help. But if he can get a set of Stacey’s dabs, perhaps Charlie Collins would be able to eliminate some of the prints found in the van.’

  ‘I can see I’ll have to go into this business of fingerprints more thoroughly, Ernie.’

  ‘Good idea, Arthur. I reckon they’re here to stay.’

  SEVEN

  The police station matron placed a cup of tea on Hardcastle’s desk, and put a plate of biscuits beside it. ‘Managed to get some ginger snaps today, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Splendid, Mrs Cartwright. You’ve made my day.’ Hardcastle put down his pipe and rubbed his hands together. ‘On your way out pop your head round the detectives’ office door, and ask Sergeant Marriott to see me, would you?’

  A few moments later, Marriott appeared. ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, dunking a ginger snap in his tea. ‘Have you got an address for that officer we saw at Victoria Station? The chap who claimed to have seen our murderer running away.’

  ‘It’s in the office, sir. I’ll fetch it.’

  Marriott returned holding his daybook, the book into which he entered all the useful information he might need or, more to the point, which his DDI might demand. ‘Officers’ Mess, St John’s Wood Barracks, sir. It’s in Ordnance Road.’

  ‘What’s he doing there? I thought St John’s Wood Barracks was where the artillery lived.’

  ‘So it is, sir,’ said Marriott, who was better acquainted with military matters than the DDI. ‘It’s where they billet units of the Royal Horse Artillery including, I believe, the Rough Riders’ battery. They are horsemen skilled in riding unbroken, or rough, horses.’

  ‘Yes, all right, Marriott, I don’t want a bloody history lesson. What was that lieutenant’s name?’ As usual, Hardcastle was asking a question to which he already knew the answer.

  ‘Geoffrey Mansfield, sir.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the chap. But I thought he said he was in the North Staffordshire Regiment, not the Gunners.’

  ‘Yes, he did, sir, but he also said he was on leave, so I suppose he lodged there because he’s probably hard up. Subalterns don’t get paid all that much. And, if you remember, sir, he said he was meeting his fiancée.’

  ‘Who have we got in the office?’

  ‘There’s only Catto at the moment, sir.’ As was his duty Marriott knew the whereabouts of all the detectives at Cannon Row Police Station, and what they were doing at any given time.

  ‘I suppose he’ll have to do.’ Hardcastle replaced his teacup carefully in the saucer. ‘Catto!’ he yelled.

  Detective Constable Henry Catto hovered uncertainly in the doorway of the DDI’s office. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Well, don’t stand there like a dying duck in a thunderstorm, Catto. Come in.’

  ‘No, sir. Er, yes, sir.’ Catto moved closer to Hardcastle’s desk.

  ‘D’you remember that army officer who reckoned he saw our murderer running away?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Li
eutenant Geoffrey Mansfield of the North Staffordshire Regiment.’

  Hardcastle raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You’re coming on a treat, Catto,’ he said. ‘Get up to St John’s Wood Barracks in Ordnance Road—’

  ‘Where’s that, sir?’ asked Catto, interrupting.

  ‘In St John’s Wood, Catto,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘Where the hell did you think it was? Timbuktu? Just listen, will you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Catto was usually a confident and competent detective, but always became uncertain of himself in the DDI’s presence, almost to the point of becoming a quivering mass of indecision.

  ‘Lieutenant Mansfield gave his address as the officers’ mess there. Get up there a bit jildi, and ask him if he can give a better description than the useless information he gave us at the time. And don’t take all day about it.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Catto, and fled to do Hardcastle’s bidding.

  ‘I don’t know, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You’ll have to do something about Catto. He never seems to know what he’s about.’

  ‘I’ll have a word, sir,’ said Marriott, who had no intention of so doing. He knew Catto’s worth, and knew that it was only the DDI who had such a debilitating effect on him.

  An hour and a quarter later, Catto reappeared in Hardcastle’s office.

  ‘Well?’ barked the DDI.

  ‘He’s not there, sir.’

  ‘Who’s not where? I’ve told you before about sloppy reporting, Catto. I won’t have it. There are God knows how many names I’m dealing with in this damned enquiry.’

  ‘Lieutenant Mansfield’s not at St John’s Wood Barracks, sir,’ replied Catto nervously.

  ‘What d’you mean, he’s not there?’

  ‘I had a word with the guard commander, and he said that he’d never heard of him. He said they were all Royal Horse Artillery there, and there was no reason why there should’ve been an infantry officer staying there.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Catto waited for the inevitable rebuke.

  ‘Did you enquire at the officers’ mess?’