Hardcastle's Traitors

by Graham Ison

  The three officers followed Henwood up the back stairs and into Villiers’s bedroom.

  ‘Right, Locke, get cracking.’ Hardcastle stood in the centre of the room, hands in pockets, and waited for the fingerprint officer to start work. ‘All right, Henwood, you can go.’

  Half an hour later, Locke announced that he had found a number of useful fingerprints. As far as he could make out, he said, there were only two differing sets, but he would have to wait until he got back to the Yard to make sure.

  ‘Shall I take the butler’s fingerprints, sir, for elimination purposes?’

  ‘No need to worry about that, Locke,’ said Hardcastle. ‘His are already in Mr Collins’s collection. He did a carpet for thieving back in 1912.’

  It was an impatient Hardcastle who sat in his office fretting. He picked up his pipe from the ashtray, looked at it, and put it down again. He toyed with reports and claims for expenses, but could not really settle to doing anything important until the results came across from the Fingerprint Bureau.

  At one o’clock, he and Marriott went across to the Red Lion for their customary liquid lunch.

  ‘I don’t know what’s taking so long, Marriott. I’d’ve thought that comparing fingerprints was a simple enough matter.’ It was a comment that demonstrated how little the DDI knew of the finer points of the science.

  At half past two, Detective Inspector Collins came into Hardcastle’s office.

  ‘Have you got something for me, Charlie?’ asked Hardcastle.

  Collins sat down and opened a file. ‘I think you’re in luck, Ernie,’ he said calmly. ‘The prints that Locke found at Flood Street were those of Henwood the butler, and one other set. I’m assuming that they belong to Villiers.’

  ‘Well, I guessed that, Charlie,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘And they match the prints taken from Villiers’s motor car.’

  ‘Comes as no surprise,’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘He drives the damned thing.’

  ‘But they don’t match those found on the showcase in Gosling’s shop at Vauxhall Bridge Road, or on the sash weight that you found there.’

  ‘Damnation!’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘And I thought he was up for it.’

  ‘It’s not all bad news, Ernie,’ said Collins, ‘because they do match prints found in Stein’s room at Bow Road.’

  ‘Aha! Got the bastard. Will it stand up in court, Charlie?’

  Collins looked at Hardcastle with a pained expression on his face. ‘If I say they’re a match, Ernie, they’re a match. So, what are you going to do now?’

  ‘What I’m going to do now, Charlie, is to go down to this address in Worthing and nick Mr Sinclair Villiers for the murder of Peter Stein. That’ll make his eyes water.’

  ‘I’ll let you have my statement and Locke’s statement in due course, Ernie,’ said Collins. ‘I just hope your bird hasn’t flown.’

  ‘He won’t have done,’ said Hardcastle. ‘He’s far too cocky to think that he’d get caught.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. Enjoy your day at the seaside, Ernie,’ said Collins, as he gathered his papers together and made his way back to the Yard.

  ‘What was that name and address in Worthing that Wood got from Henwood, Marriott?’

  ‘The woman is Mrs Victoria Wheeler and she lives on West Parade, Worthing, sir.’

  ‘Good. Tomorrow morning we’ll go to this love nest in Worthing and ruin their weekend for them, Marriott.’

  The train journey from Victoria to West Worthing took just over an hour. There was quite a strong wind blowing off the seafront when the detectives’ cab turned into West Parade. The sea was rough, and white-capped waves hurled themselves at the beach, only to recede feebly until their next onslaught.

  ‘We should’ve come in the summer, Marriott,’ commented Hardcastle pointlessly.

  Victoria Wheeler’s house was an ornate double-fronted property, and clearly worth a substantial amount of money.

  The first disturbing indication that the bird might indeed have flown was the absence of Villiers’s Haxe-Doulton tourer from the drive of Mrs Wheeler’s house.

  ‘I’ve a nasty feeling that Villiers might have buggered off already, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said the housemaid who opened the door in response to Hardcastle’s knock.

  ‘Is Mrs Wheeler at home, lass?’

  ‘Who shall I say it is, sir?’

  ‘We’re police officers.’

  ‘Oh!’ exclaimed the girl, apparently disconcerted by this announcement. ‘If you care to step inside, sir, I’ll enquire if the mistress is at home.’ She returned a few moments later. ‘This way, sir.’

  A vivacious woman in her thirties greeted the two London detectives. She was a tall and slender blonde, and, even to Hardcastle’s unpractised eye, the fine-wool navy blue costume that she wore had cost a deal more than Alice Hardcastle would have been able to afford. The jacket, popular for the period, had numerous buttons down the front and a simulated belt, undoubtedly influenced by the military uniforms that seemed to be everywhere since the war started. And the skirt, although long, nevertheless revealed the woman’s ankles and a pair of black, glacé-kid shoes. As she drew closer, Hardcastle detected the whiff of a delicate perfume.

  ‘Sarah tells me you are from the police.’ The statement, almost an accusation, was delivered in cultured tones, and displayed no sign of apprehension.

  ‘That’s correct, madam. I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of Scotland Yard.’ Hardcastle often claimed to be from Commissioner’s Office when out of London; he imagined it lent him an extra authority that he did not really need. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’

  ‘I see. And why, pray, should two officers from Scotland Yard be paying me a visit?’ As an apparent afterthought, Mrs Wheeler added, ‘You’d better sit down and tell me what this is all about.’

  ‘It’s not you I wanted to see, madam,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I was hoping to find Mr Sinclair Villiers here.’

  ‘Were you really?’ The woman spoke in haughty tones, as though Hardcastle had accused her outright of adultery. ‘Well, I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey. He’s not here.’

  ‘I was given to understand that he was going to be here for the weekend, Mrs Wheeler.’

  ‘That was the original intention, but late last night he received a telephone call from his butler who said something about his house having been burgled. As a result he rushed straight back to London. It was just as well because my husband was recalled yesterday as well.’ As if to emphasize the point, she waved at a studio portrait of a man in the full dress uniform of a major in the Scots Guards holding a bearskin in the crook of his arm. ‘Sinclair is a family friend, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ murmured Hardcastle. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you, madam,’ he said, as he and Marriott stood up.

  ‘Are you going back to London?’ asked Mrs Wheeler.

  ‘Yes, I’ll call on Mr Villiers at his Flood Street address.’

  ‘You’ve met him before, I take it.’

  ‘Indeed I have, madam.’

  ‘It would have saved you a wasted journey if you’d telephoned me. I could have told you that he wasn’t here.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Hardcastle, thinking that that would not have made the slightest difference.

  ‘I’ll have Sarah show you out, Inspector.’

  ‘Thank you, madam,’ said Hardcastle tersely.

  The moment that Hardcastle had left the house, Mrs Wheeler went into a back room that she used as a study and made a telephone call.

  The two detectives walked out on to West Parade and were immediately buffeted by the strong wind. Hardcastle was in a foul mood, not helped by the fact that they had to walk some considerable distance before sighting a cab.

  They were on the train, and in a compartment to themselves, before the DDI gave vent to his feelings.

  ‘That bloody man Henwood tipped him off, Marriott.’r />
  ‘Certainly looks like it, sir. So, a call at Flood Street?’

  ‘If Villiers is there, Kaiser Bill’s my bloody uncle, Marriott,’ exclaimed Hardcastle crossly. ‘He knows we’re on to him, and he’s run. The question is where.’

  ‘D’you believe this story about Mrs Wheeler’s husband being recalled, sir?’

  ‘Not on your life! I doubt he even exists.’

  ‘But there was a photograph of him, sir, in the uniform of the Scots Guards.’

  ‘How do we know it’s her husband, Marriott? Just because that’s what Mrs Wheeler said don’t mean it’s true. It could’ve been anyone: her brother for instance, or even another paramour. No, Marriott, Villiers was down there for a bit of jig-a-jig, and the only thing that pleases me at all is that we’ve buggered up his passionate few days by the seaside.’ Hardcastle lapsed into silence for a moment or two. ‘We’ll have a word with Colonel Frobisher about this so-called Major Wheeler of the …’ He paused. ‘Scots Guards, you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see if the colonel can tell us if the major exists and if he was recalled yesterday.’

  ‘But what will that prove, sir?’

  ‘Nothing, Marriott, except to give me some satisfaction, and to counter any story that Villiers might come up with when we eventually find him.’

  Hardcastle was in no better mood when he reached Cannon Row. After a thoughtful five minutes, he made a decision.

  ‘I think we’ll go to Flood Street anyway, Marriott. I’m keen to know what Henwood will have to say for himself.’

  ‘Unless he’s disappeared too, sir.’

  ‘One way of finding out,’ growled Hardcastle. ‘But we’ll see the APM on the way.’ He put on his overcoat and took his hat and umbrella from the hatstand.

  ‘Inspector Hardcastle.’ Colonel Frobisher skirted his desk and shook hands. ‘And what trouble are you bringing me today?’

  ‘A fairly simple enquiry, Colonel,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott accepted Frobisher’s invitation to take a seat. ‘In connection with certain enquiries I’m making, a Major Wheeler of the Scots Guards has come to my attention; he’s apparently the husband of Mrs Victoria Wheeler. My information is that he was recalled from his Worthing home yesterday.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure about that, Inspector?’ Frobisher appeared to have been taken aback by Hardcastle’s statement.

  ‘Most certainly, Colonel. I spoke to his wife only this morning.’

  ‘There’s something very wrong with this.’ Frobisher stood up and wandered back and forth behind his desk. ‘I happen to have known Jimmy Wheeler. He and I were at the Royal Military College at Sandhurst together, but he was killed at Givenchy on the eighteenth of December 1914. It was me who had to tell Victoria. Half Jimmy’s battalion was wiped out during the course of a rather badly planned attack.’ The APM paused; clearly there was something troubling him. ‘You say you visited Victoria at Worthing, Inspector.’

  ‘Yes, I did. At West Parade, Worthing.’

  ‘I have to say that this is all very strange. I was best man at the Wheelers’ wedding in 1906, and after their marriage he and Victoria set up home in the family seat, a rather splendid house in Esher that had belonged to Jimmy’s late father. Perhaps Victoria moved to Worthing after Jimmy’s death. Was there by any chance another man there, Inspector?’

  ‘No, Colonel. There had been, but he left the previous evening. She described him as a family friend.’

  Frobisher laughed. ‘I’m not at all surprised,’ he said. ‘Victoria Wheeler always had a reputation for being a flighty young girl. Still, there’s no reason why she shouldn’t have a man friend now that she’s a widow, and a damned attractive one at that.’

  ‘How well d’you know her, Colonel?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Very well indeed.’ Frobisher emitted a rueful laugh. ‘As a matter of fact, Jimmy just pipped me to the post. If I’d been quicker off the mark, I would have married her myself, but I suppose a Guards officer beats a humble Sherwood Forester every time. But none of this rings true, Inspector.’

  ‘Can you describe Mrs Wheeler, Colonel?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘I can do better than that, Sergeant. I think I’ve a photograph of the wedding here somewhere that I’d like you to take a look at.’ Frobisher returned to his seat and began rummaging through the drawers of his desk. ‘Yes, here we are,’ he said, eventually finding the print and handing it to Hardcastle.

  For a moment or two, the DDI studied the photograph. It showed the newly-weds emerging from the church through an archway of raised swords held, presumably, by James Wheeler’s brother officers. In the background was Ralph Frobisher in the full dress uniform of the Sherwood Foresters.

  ‘That’s not the Victoria Wheeler I saw.’ Hardcastle handed the print to Marriott. ‘What d’you think?’

  Marriott needed only a cursory glance. ‘That’s definitely not her, sir. The woman we saw was a blonde, and the girl in this photograph has dark hair. And that is not the officer in the photograph that was on the mantel, sir. As far as I can tell.’

  ‘Do you know who this male visitor was?’ asked Frobisher, now becoming even more concerned as the tale unfolded.

  ‘Sinclair Villiers, Colonel.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ That information shocked Frobisher even further. ‘D’you mean Captain Haydn Villiers’s father?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the man,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Far be it for me to suggest how you should do your job, Inspector, but the implications of all this could be very serious. In view of what we know of Haydn Villiers, this woman could somehow be tied up in passing information to the enemy.’

  ‘I’d just come to that conclusion myself, Colonel.’ Hardcastle stood up. ‘Thank you for your assistance. I think it’s time that I started making a few arrests.’ He paused in the doorway. ‘D’you happen to know the address in Esher where the Wheelers were living, Colonel?’

  ‘I’ll write it down for you,’ said Frobisher, and scribbled the details on a slip of paper.

  FOURTEEN

  Instead of going to Flood Street to confront Villiers’s butler, Hardcastle returned to his office.

  ‘There’s something funny going on here, Marriott,’ said the DDI, and sat down behind his desk.

  ‘So it would appear, sir,’ said Marriott diplomatically. To him it was patently obvious that there was something sinister in a woman claiming to be the wife of a dead Scots Guards major. Especially as she had displayed a photograph of someone who was not James Wheeler in her sitting room, and had claimed that he had been recalled on the previous day.

  ‘Before we do anything hasty, we’ll make sure that what Colonel Frobisher told us is the truth.’

  ‘But how do we do that, sir?’ Marriott could not understand why the DDI should doubt the APM’s word. He thought that Frobisher’s personal knowledge of the Wheelers, together with the photograph of their wedding was sufficient proof.

  ‘We go to Esher and find out, Marriott. I should’ve thought you’d have worked that out for yourself.’

  Marriott had worked it out, but he also knew that if he had suggested it, Hardcastle would have dismissed it as a waste of time. That said, he knew that the DDI would always check what others had told him. And then check it again.

  The train journey from Waterloo railway station to Esher in Surrey took half an hour. Fortunately, there were several cabs waiting on the station forecourt.

  The Wheeler house was a large white double-fronted mansion set in its own spacious grounds. ‘This is some place, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, as the cab stopped at the end of a long winding drive. ‘I reckon the Wheelers weren’t short of a bob or two.’

  ‘Good afternoon, gentleman.’ The butler, immaculately attired, spoke with the deference of his profession combined with an air of superiority.

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and I’d like a word with Mrs Wheeler.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.
I’ll enquire if the mistress is receiving visitors today.’ The butler paused. ‘I trust there’s no trouble, sir,’ he said, with a slight lift of his eyebrows.

  ‘No, not at all. It’s just an enquiry that Mrs Wheeler may be able to assist me with.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Perhaps you’d step inside.’

  Hardcastle and Marriott entered a large temple-tiled hall. There was a large round table in the centre upon which, neatly arranged, were copies of The Times, the Morning Post and the Daily Mail. Several portraits adorned the walls, most of which depicted soldiers in Guards uniform.

  ‘It looks as though the army is a Wheeler family tradition, Marriott,’ commented Hardcastle, looking around. ‘And I wouldn’t like to have to clean that, either,’ he added, glancing up at the crystal chandelier that dominated the hall.

  ‘This way, gentlemen,’ said the butler, returning a few moments later. ‘The mistress is in the drawing room.’

  The woman who greeted Hardcastle and Marriott was, by any reckoning, a beauty who had yet to reach her thirtieth birthday. Her upswept brown hair was immaculately coiffed, and her red silk dress rustled as she crossed the room with her hand held out.

  ‘I’m Victoria Wheeler, gentlemen,’ she said, as she shook hands with each of them. ‘How may I help you? Do please sit down,’ she added with a smile, and indicated one of two leather chesterfield sofas that faced each other at right angles to a roaring log fire. She sat down opposite the detectives, leaned forward and opened a pewter box. Taking out a cigarette, she fitted it into a long holder. ‘Please help yourselves if either of you smoke.’ She pushed the cigarette box across the small table that separated them.

  ‘I’m a pipe smoker, madam,’ said Hardcastle, who was still unaccustomed to the sight of a woman smoking, even in her own home. ‘If you’ve no objection, that is.’

  ‘None at all. Please go ahead. My late husband was a pipe smoker, and I grew to like the aroma of it.’

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, madam, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott. And I’m investigating two murders.’ He took out his pipe and began to fill it.