Hardcastle's Traitors

by Graham Ison

  ‘It does indeed. On each occasion during the last six months when the Carlson docked at Shoreham, Villiers went to Worthing the previous day and, it seems, the bogus Mrs Wheeler booked a taxi to take her to Shoreham on the day of the ship’s arrival.’

  ‘Not a coincidence, then, sir,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘If it is, Mr Hardcastle, it’s the sort of coincidence I like,’ said Quinn with a wry smile.

  ‘Are you going down there, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I am. And I suggest that you and your officers accompany me and my men. If Villiers appears there today, as I suspect he may, you’ll have a chance to interrogate him with regard to the murders you’re investigating.’ Quinn paused to stroke his beard. ‘On the other hand, if Villiers is a participant in some act of espionage, any such charges will take precedence over murder.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Hardcastle was not unduly concerned about the legal niceties of the matter; if Villiers was found guilty of either spying or murder, he would finish up on the scaffold.

  Quinn took out his watch and studied it. ‘I suggest we meet here again in one hour’s time. I have a number of motor vehicles at my disposal, and they should get us to Shoreham in good time to set up an observation.’ He paused. ‘DI Strange and DS Shaughnessy have been at Shoreham harbour for some days now, and I shall have several of my other officers with me.’

  That Quinn had arranged to keep Shoreham harbour under observation for some days surprised Hardcastle, and he reluctantly concluded that Special Branch officers were better detectives than he had originally given them credit for.

  Hardcastle had decided that it would be sufficient for Detective Sergeants Marriott and Wood to accompany him to Shoreham harbour, and at ten o’clock the three of them assembled in Superintendent Quinn’s office.

  The journey, due south from London, took a little under two hours. By midday the detectives were in a position in the harbour to have a good sight of where the SS Carlson would dock, but sufficiently well concealed to ensure that they were not spotted by either Villiers or the woman using the name of Mrs Wheeler. Always assuming, of course, that they arrived when the Carlson did.

  The Swedish freighter docked on time and the stevedores began the onerous task of unloading her. Of Villiers and the woman there was no sign.

  But at four o’clock, once the unloading had been completed, the patience of the waiting police was rewarded. A taxi drew up on the quayside and three people, two men and a woman, alighted.

  ‘That’s Villiers and the woman calling herself Mrs Wheeler, sir,’ said Hardcastle to Quinn, ‘but I don’t know who the other man is.’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough, Mr Hardcastle.’ Quinn signalled to his officers and a moment later the three arrivals were surrounded. Villiers and Mrs Wheeler were carrying briefcases and these were seized by the officers.

  The unidentified man, however, attempted to make a run for it.

  ‘Grab him, Marriott,’ shouted Hardcastle.

  In a matter of seconds, Marriott and Wood had sped the short distance across the quayside and seized the man by his arms.

  ‘Not so fast, my lad,’ said Marriott.

  ‘What’s this all about,’ protested the man. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘We’re police officers, as if you didn’t know,’ said Marriott, and with Wood’s aid escorted their prisoner back to where Villiers and the woman were being held.

  ‘We’ll take them back to London, Mr Hardcastle, and make use of your police station.’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure, sir.’

  ‘I’ll interview Villiers first, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Quinn, once they were back at Cannon Row, ‘and you’re welcome to sit in, but I’d be obliged if you were to remain silent until I’ve finished. After that you may question him. I may also have to involve MI5.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Hardcastle, wondering when exactly he would be given the opportunity to question Villiers about the two murders. From what he knew of MI5, its officers did not seem possessed of the same sense of urgency as the police. ‘Might I suggest that the fingerprints of Villiers and the unidentified man be taken immediately? I’ve a feeling that they might match some which are already in Mr Collins’s possession. He found some at Flood Street that we think were Villiers’s, but I’d like to make sure.’

  ‘Certainly. I’ll rely on you to arrange that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘On reflection,’ said Quinn thoughtfully, ‘I think it would be advisable if we were to await the result of Mr Collins’s findings before conducting our interviews with them.’

  ‘Very good, sir, I’ll get Mr Collins on to it straight away,’ said Hardcastle, and dispatched Marriott to make the arrangements.

  It was near nine o’clock that evening when Detective Inspector Collins reported back to Hardcastle.

  ‘We’re in luck, Ernie.’ Collins sat down in one of the chairs in the DDI’s office. ‘Sinclair Villiers’s fingerprints match those that were found on the Morse code receiving apparatus seized by Special Branch. The prints of the other man match those I found in Villiers’s car when I examined it down at Wandsworth, and they also match the prints I found at the scene of Reuben Gosling’s murder in Vauxhall Bridge Road.’

  ‘Got the bugger!’ exclaimed Hardcastle, and rubbed his hands together.

  ‘But we still don’t know who he is,’ said Collins. ‘His prints aren’t in my collection.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that, Charlie,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’ll sweat it out of him soon enough.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, Ernie,’ said Collins, nodding sagely.

  ‘I’m going across to see Mr Quinn now, Charlie. It’d probably be best if you came with me in case he’s got any questions.’

  But Quinn was quite satisfied with DI Collins’s report. ‘I think we’ll wait until tomorrow morning to start interviewing our prisoners, Mr Hardcastle,’ he said.

  ‘Is that lawful, sir? I mean, shouldn’t they be charged with something?’

  Quinn afforded the A Division DDI a bleak smile. ‘I’m holding them under the Defence of the Realm Act and the Official Secrets Act, Mr Hardcastle. I can keep them as long as is necessary.’

  It was ten o’clock by the time that Hardcastle reached home. There had already been another air raid warning, and the heavy drone of a Zeppelin could be heard overhead. But Hardcastle, like many Londoners, had become philosophical about the bombing, taking the view that if you are going to be killed there was nothing you could do about it. As the troops in the trenches often commented, ‘If your number’s on it …’

  ‘You’re late, Ernie.’ Alice was in the parlour knitting socks and gloves and cap comforters for the troops. ‘Been busy?’ she asked, setting aside her needles and wool.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been to the seaside,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘That’s nice, dear.’ Alice knew better than to ask why her husband had been to the coast or what he had been doing there. ‘I suppose you’d like a cup of tea.’ She stood up and made her way towards the kitchen.

  ‘No thanks. I think I’ll have a Scotch. What about you? A sherry?’

  ‘No, I’ll have tea, love. If I have a sherry this late, I’ll lay awake for hours.’

  ‘You had one on New Year’s Eve,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘That’s different,’ said Alice, demonstrating a feminine logic with which her husband was loath to argue.

  Hardcastle had no sooner settled with his whisky, and Alice with her cup of tea, than Kitty arrived home.

  ‘Hello, Pa, Ma.’ Kitty crossed the room and gave each of her parents a kiss.

  Hardcastle leaned back in his chair and surveyed his daughter. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed, ‘what on earth are you wearing?’

  ‘It’s the new conductorette uniform,’ said Kitty. She smiled cheekily, pushed a leg forward and placed her hands on her hips in an exaggerated pose. Her skirt was knee-length over tight blue breeches, and she wore knee-high leather gaiters. ‘It’s
been designed so that we can run up and down the stairs of a bus without having to hold our skirts up. Before we got this outfit, there was always some dirty old man sitting near the back of the bus hoping to get a glimpse of our legs.’

  ‘Kitty!’ Alice was appalled at her daughter’s outspoken comments.

  But Kitty only laughed. ‘Anyway, I’m going to bed. I’m on early in the morning.’

  ‘I don’t know what the younger generation’s coming to, Alice.’ Hardcastle shook his head as their eldest daughter departed.

  ‘It’s the war, dear,’ said Alice. It seemed that most deviations from acceptable behaviour these days were attributed to the war.

  Hardcastle arrived at Cannon Row early on Friday morning, but Quinn was already seated in the DDI’s office.

  ‘We’ll interview Villiers first, Mr Hardcastle.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  It was apparent, the moment that Quinn and Hardcastle entered the interview room, that Villiers was not going to make any admission readily. At least, not straight away.

  ‘I’m a person of considerable standing with substantial means,’ Villiers began pompously, ‘and I’d like to know why I was detained in such a public fashion and brought here. It’s a damned disgrace. I should’ve thought that you people would have had something better to do, especially with a war on. I should warn you that there’ll be a matter of wrongful arrest and false imprisonment to be considered. I shall brief the finest barrister in the land.’ He glared at the detectives with an air of righteous indignation. ‘Who are you people, anyway?’

  ‘I’m Superintendent Quinn, head of Special Branch, and this is Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division who, of course, you’ve already met. And you can stop making speeches.’ Quinn sat down alongside Hardcastle and coolly surveyed the prisoner. ‘And in answer to your question, Villiers, you have been arrested on suspicion of contravening the Defence of the Realm Act and the Official Secrets Act.’

  ‘Preposterous!’ exclaimed Villiers. ‘I demand the presence of my solicitor.’

  ‘You’ll have a solicitor if and when I decide you’ll have one,’ said Quinn mildly, secure in the knowledge that the statutes he had mentioned allowed such a denial of counsel. He opened a file and spent a moment or two reading through its contents. ‘On Friday the seventh of this month, my officers seized Morse code equipment from premises at Bow Road where, incidentally, the dead body of Peter Stein was found.’

  ‘I don’t see what any of this has to do with me.’ Villiers leaned back in his chair, an insolent expression on his face. ‘And, as a matter of interest, I’ve never heard of this Peter Stein. Are you suggesting that I murdered him?’

  ‘I didn’t say he’d been murdered, Villiers,’ said Quinn. ‘But you have been detained because your fingerprints were found on the Morse code apparatus and on various pieces of furniture in Stein’s room. What have you to say about that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Villiers churlishly.

  Quinn glanced at his file again. ‘It has been established that a Frenchman by the name of Pierre Benoit had been receiving sensitive military information from your son, Captain Haydn Villiers, and that Benoit had been transmitting it by Morse code to the apparatus found at Bow Road. But this apparatus was originally at your house in Flood Street, Chelsea, until you decided to move it to Bow Road.’

  ‘What makes you think my son had anything to do with this?’ asked Villiers, avoiding the allegation that he had put the Morse code apparatus in Stein’s room. ‘He’s an army officer, for God’s sake.’

  ‘He’s admitted it,’ said Quinn, closing the file. ‘He is currently detained at the Tower of London following his arrest for espionage, coincidentally on the same day that Stein’s body was found.’

  The news of his son’s arrest clearly came as a great shock to Villiers and his face showed it. ‘My God! My son’s been arrested?’ he exclaimed. ‘Why wasn’t I told about this?’

  ‘In wartime, Villiers,’ said Quinn, ‘the police are under no obligation to tell anyone when we have arrested a spy.’

  ‘A spy? What nonsense.’ But Villiers decided not to challenge Quinn’s comment any further. ‘How did you know to find me at Shoreham?’ Finally, his curiosity got the better of him.

  ‘Your butler Henwood obligingly told us,’ said Quinn, with just the trace of a smile. ‘Incidentally, he obtained his position with you by way of a false reference.’

  ‘I knew all about that, of course I did,’ said Villiers defiantly. ‘Did you think for one moment that I’d not checked on the rather amateurish reference he provided? Furthermore, I told him that I knew. And that gave me a useful hold over him. Consequently, he did everything I told him, otherwise I’d’ve handed him over to you people.’

  ‘Not quite everything,’ said Quinn. ‘He kept a journal listing every occasion you went to Worthing. Curiously enough, on exactly the same dates that the SS Carlson docked at Shoreham. And Mrs Wheeler also took a cab to Shoreham on those dates. That’s how we knew where to find you.’

  ‘Henwood’s a treacherous, ungrateful swine.’ Villiers glared angrily at Quinn. ‘I’ll happily give you the reference he provided, and you can lock the bloody man up for as long as you like.’ It was typical of Villiers’s arrogance that he would readily abandon anyone who was of no further use to him.

  Quinn turned to the A Division DDI. ‘Do you have any questions for the prisoner, Mr Hardcastle?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Why did you murder Reuben Gosling, Villiers?’ Hardcastle posed the question mildly, but in such a way as to give the impression he had overwhelming proof that this was the case. To his surprise, it triggered a violent reaction, and eventually an admission of guilt. Of sorts.

  ‘The bloody man was murdered because he was a traitor to our cause.’ Villiers spat the words defiantly.

  ‘Do you admit to murdering him, then?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘But you knew of it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what cause is this that’s so important that it was necessary for him to be killed?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘A homeland for the Jews.’

  ‘But Reuben Gosling was Jewish. Why should he be murdered?’

  ‘Because he disagreed with our aims.’ Villiers took out a gold cigarette case and selected a Turkish cigarette from it. He fitted it carefully into a holder and took a lighter from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Reuben Gosling threatened to denounce us to the authorities and he had to be stopped,’ he continued, once he had lit his cigarette. ‘It would have brought to nothing all that we’ve being fighting for, as well as leading to our arrests.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to explain that more fully.’ Quinn took over the questioning again; the subject had swung away from the murder back to matters political.

  ‘You damned English only ever paid lip service to the establishment of a Jewish homeland,’ proclaimed Villiers. It sounded like the beginning of a speech that he had made many times before.

  ‘I’m Irish,’ observed Quinn quietly, ‘But you are English, are you not?’

  ‘It makes no difference because I am first and foremost a Jew.’ Villiers dismissed Quinn’s observation as something he saw as a mere technicality. ‘But the Ottoman Empire has made a promise that once the British have been defeated, they will establish a homeland for the Jews in Palestine. The Ottomans support Germany and that is why we were giving them information. To make sure that Germany would win the war.’

  ‘If you didn’t murder Gosling, who did?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Isaac Gosling, Reuben’s son.’

  ‘Are you saying that Isaac Gosling murdered his own father?’ asked Hardcastle incredulously. Patricide was a rare crime in Britain, and the DDI had some difficulty in believing Villiers’s statement.

  ‘Some things transcend filial loyalty,’ snapped Villiers. ‘Isaac Gosling made the fatal mistake of attempting to enlist his father to the cause, but Reuben Gosling was violently opp
osed to anything that might endanger this country. And he threatened to expose us to the authorities. He had to be got rid of.’

  ‘Reuben Gosling sounds like a patriot,’ observed Quinn.

  ‘What’s more, Isaac Gosling murdered Peter Stein,’ said Villiers, ignoring Quinn’s comment. ‘The wretched man had also become a threat by his foolishness.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Stein tried to sell some of the jewellery stolen from Reuben Gosling’s shop and that would’ve brought suspicion on all of us.’

  ‘And Isaac Gosling is the man who was with you when you were arrested at Shoreham.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why were you there?’

  ‘We were proposing to go to Sweden.’

  ‘Because you knew you were about to be arrested?’

  ‘Of course. You people aren’t as clever as you seem to think,’ said Villiers arrogantly.

  ‘We were this time,’ murmured Hardcastle.

  ‘Presumably it was the captain of the SS Carlson to whom you gave the information you had transcribed from the Morse messages you received from Benoit,’ said Quinn, ‘so that he could pass it on to the German embassy in Stockholm.’ Quinn was guessing now, but he was fairly sure that that is what had occurred.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We know that Mrs Wheeler is not the woman she claimed to be,’ said Quinn, suddenly changing the line of questioning. ‘Where does she fit into all this?’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better ask her,’ said Villiers sarcastically.

  ‘Oh, we shall,’ said Quinn. ‘Or is she just your fancy woman?’

  For the first time since the interview began, a sardonic smile crossed Villiers’s face. ‘She was not an unwilling bed companion,’ he said, ‘and that was a bonus.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to explain this document that was found in the briefcase you were carrying.’ Quinn produced a small grey card from his file. The card bore a photograph of the bogus Mrs Wheeler, but the text was in German and the name of the holder was shown as Irma Glatzer.

  ‘No, I would not,’ said Villiers.

  ‘Very well.’ Declining to comment further on the document he had just shown Villiers, Quinn stood up. ‘Sinclair Villiers, you will be charged with an offence against Section One of the Official Secrets Act.’ He opened the door and addressed the Special Branch constable stationed outside the interview room. ‘This prisoner is to be charged. Take all his belongings from him and place him in a cell. Then fetch the other male prisoner up here.’