Hardcastle's Quartet

by Graham Ison

  ‘I don’t rightly know. Some of the young men brought the young ladies with them.’

  ‘What were the names of the men who came?’

  ‘Well,’ began Hannah thoughtfully, ‘there was Guy and Leo, like you said, and there was another soldier called Jonno.’

  ‘Jonno? Is that his real name?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir, but that’s what he was called. He came from the same regiment, or whatever they call it, as Guy and Leo.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘There was others, sir, but I don’t rightly remember their names.’

  ‘And I suppose that one of them finished up in Mrs Cheney’s bed, eh, Hannah?’ Marriott paused and smiled. ‘Or in yours?’

  Hannah Clarke looked away and fussed at her blonde hair, and tears began to well up. ‘It was the mistress’s idea,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘She said as how these poor young men might—’

  ‘Yes, I know. They might get shot down and killed any day.’

  ‘How often did Mr Curtis call on Mrs Cheney, Hannah?’ asked Hardcastle, his ugly mood softening, despite thinking that Hannah’s tears were contrived.

  ‘Not very often, sir.’ Hannah was surprised at the sudden change in questions, and turned to face Hardcastle. ‘He usually come in the mornings about once a week, just to see if the mistress was all right, and if she needed anything done.’

  ‘Did he ever come to these parties?’

  ‘Oh no, sir, never.’

  ‘Did you ever post any letters for your mistress?’ Hardcastle was now thinking about the unfinished blackmail letter.

  ‘Oh yes, all the time, sir,’ said Hannah.

  ‘D’you know who they were written to?’

  ‘Usually to the master, sir. I remember them particular because they was addressed to Commander R. Cheney, DSC, care of HM Ships. And she wrote to the boys as well.’

  ‘Anyone else? Any gentlemen, for example?’

  ‘Not that I recall, sir. There used to be a post book what was kept by the butler, but like I said before, he was killed soon after he joined up, and nothing’s been put in it since. The mistress said not to bother any more. In fact she threw it away.’

  ‘I’ll bet she did,’ said Hardcastle, half to himself. Furthermore, he did not believe that Hannah could not remember the names on the letters she posted. He stood up and knocked the ash from his pipe on the blackleaded fire basket. ‘If I have to come here asking questions again, lass, I’ll want the truth. Is that understood?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. I’m very sorry, sir, but the mistress—’

  ‘I know,’ said Hardcastle, holding up a hand. ‘The mistress said you weren’t to mention it to anyone. Come, Marriott,’ he added, picking up his hat and umbrella.

  ‘Did you and Captain Slater enjoy the show at the Alhambra last night, Hannah?’ asked Marriott, as he and the DDI were leaving.

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. It was ever so good.’

  Once the two detectives were in the street, Hardcastle stopped and turned. ‘Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs, Marriott. What a carney little bitch. Coming over the innocent and all the time she’s giving her favours to any airman who happens by.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the bold Captain Slater was upstairs in bed while we were talking to her, either, sir.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Hardcastle, sighting a cab. ‘Scotland Yard, cabbie.’ Turning to his sergeant, he added, ‘Tell ’em Cannon Row and half the time you’ll end up at Cannon Street in the City, Marriott.’

  ‘So I believe, sir,’ said Marriott wearily. He had received this advice on almost every occasion that he and Hardcastle had shared a cab to the police station.

  Back at Cannon Row, Hardcastle called Marriott into his office.

  ‘I’ve been wondering, Marriott,’ the DDI began, puffing contentedly at his pipe.

  ‘You have, sir?’ Marriott was always disconcerted when Hardcastle announced that he had been ‘wondering’. It usually meant that the DDI was about to steer the enquiry in a direction unrelated to anything he had learned so far.

  ‘Yes, I’m wondering whether someone Mrs Cheney knew in Malta was the one what she was putting the black on. If it was her who wrote that letter. If so, he might’ve been the one what topped her.’

  ‘But how on earth are we to find that out, sir?’ Marriott was aghast, fearing that the DDI might be on the point of suggesting a trip to the Mediterranean island fortress with its concomitant risk of meeting a German submarine on the way. But that apart, he did not know what had prompted Hardcastle to think that the subject of the blackmail might be in Malta. In his view he was much more likely to be closer to home.

  ‘Ways and means, Marriott, ways and means,’ said Hardcastle mysteriously. ‘The Maltese have got an office in London somewhere, haven’t they?’

  ‘Probably, sir. I’ll find out. We’ve got a list of embassies in the main office.’

  ‘It won’t be an embassy, Marriott. Malta’s part of the Empire. You should know that. It’ll likely be a high commission. Find out.’

  Marriott returned five minutes later. ‘The Commissioner-General for Malta is Sir Sebastian Fulljames and he has his office at 39 St James’s Street, sir.’

  ‘Good. It’s time we had a chat with him. He might just know of someone who knew Mrs Cheney out there, and is now back here.’ Hardcastle donned his hat and picked up his umbrella. ‘But this is proving to be thirsty work, Marriott. We’ll have a pie and a pint first.’

  ‘Sebastian Fulljames, gentlemen. You’re from the police, you say.’ The frock-coated man who greeted the two detectives was at least seventy years of age. Although balding, he had full grey sideburns that met his equally grey moustache. ‘I’m the Commissioner-General for Malta.’ Crossing the office towards Hardcastle and Marriott he allowed his monocle to drop from his eye, adroitly catching it and placing it in his waistcoat pocket. ‘And what may I do to assist the police?’ he asked, shaking hands with each of the CID officers. ‘Please do take a seat.’ He waved vaguely at a couple of leather-backed chairs before sitting down behind his desk.

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of a Mrs Georgina Cheney, Sir Sebastian,’ Hardcastle began, finding it awkward to link Fulljames’s title with his Christian name. ‘She was found dead at her house in Whilber Street last Wednesday morning.’

  ‘Mmm, yes!’ murmured Fulljames, absent-mindedly taking a pinch of snuff. ‘Read somethin’ about it in The Times. Very sad. Great tragedy. Husband at sea, too. Great tragedy. But how can I possibly assist? Never knew the girl.’

  Hardcastle glanced at his sergeant. ‘You’ve got all the facts at your fingertips, Marriott. Tell the Commissioner-General.’

  ‘We understand that Mrs Cheney was born and brought up in Malta, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘We have evidence leading us to believe that she might’ve been a blackmailer and we’re exploring the possibility that the subject of her blackmail was someone she knew in Malta.’ Personally he didn’t think so, but was obliged to go along with the DDI’s theory, however bizarre.

  ‘And you think this person might’ve murdered the poor girl.’ Despite his apparent absent-mindedness, Fulljames got to the nub of the matter very quickly.

  ‘It’s a possibility, Sir Sebastian,’ said Hardcastle cautiously.

  ‘Mmm!’ Fulljames took another pinch of snuff. ‘I don’t really see how I can help you, Inspector. You see I’ve never been to Malta.’

  ‘Really, sir?’ Hardcastle was surprised that a man who held the appointment of Commissioner-General for Malta was apparently unfamiliar with all that went on there. He glanced around the opulent office, taking in the pictures of the island and the various Maltese artefacts that adorned the walls and Fulljames’s desk.

  ‘This job is very much a sinecure, Inspector. I’m really only a sort of agent. If I get any queries that I’m unable to answer, I usually send a wire to Lord Methuen, the Governor, and let his people sort it out. However …’ Fulljames paused again. ‘The
re is a chap at the Foreign Office who served in Malta before the war started. He may be able to assist you. I’ve often sent people to see him. Seems to know a lot about the social scene there. His name’s Dudley ffrench. I’ll jot it down for you.’ He scribbled the name on a slip of paper and handed it to Hardcastle.

  ‘Is that how you spell it, sir?’ queried Hardcastle, glancing up from the note Fulljames had given him. ‘And without a capital letter at the beginning?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, but one pronounces it French apparently,’ said Fulljames. ‘Strange business,’ he added, taking yet another pinch of snuff.

  Being familiar with all the government offices that lay within his bailiwick, Hardcastle obviously knew where the Foreign Office was located. But, once there, finding the curiously named Dudley ffrench proved to be a more difficult matter.

  An ageing messenger took several minutes thumbing through three or four directories before he established exactly where the diplomat had his office.

  ‘Ah! Got ’im, sir. I knew he was ’ere somewhere.’ Closing the directory, the messenger, impaired by a club foot, led them slowly across Durbar Court, up a flight of ornate stairs and along several corridors. Finally he knocked deferentially at a large oaken door.

  ‘Two gentlemen from the police to see you, sir.’

  ‘Ah, you’re just in time for tea.’ Dudley ffrench was a portly man of medium height who must have been approaching sixty. He closed the file on which he had been working and removed his pince-nez before skirting his desk.

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, sir, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’

  ‘How d’you do,’ said ffrench, as he shook hands with the two detectives. ‘Do take a seat, gentlemen, and tell me how I may be of service,’ he added, perching on the front edge of his desk.

  ‘We’re investigating the murder of Georgina Cheney, Mr ffrench,’ Hardcastle began.

  ‘Good God! I knew a girl called Georgina who married Bob Cheney, a naval officer, in Malta back in oh-five. Could that be the same girl, I wonder?’

  ‘She was certainly married to a Commander Robert Cheney, Mr ffrench,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ exclaimed ffrench. ‘Who murdered her?’

  ‘We don’t know at present, sir,’ said Marriott, ‘but we were wondering if you could help us with our enquiries. We found a half-finished letter at her house that appeared to be a threat of some sort. It would seem that she was blackmailing someone, but as the letter wasn’t completed or addressed, we don’t know who it was meant for.’

  ‘And you think that whoever she was writing to might’ve killed her, is that it?’

  ‘That’s a theory we’re working on at the moment,’ said Hardcastle, even though he was sceptical about the letter’s authorship.

  ‘Can’t say I’m surprised,’ said ffrench. ‘Ah, the tea.’ He paused as a woman in a blue overall entered with a tray. ‘Perhaps you’d be so good as to rustle up two more cups, Martha, there’s a dear.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The woman disappeared to return moments later with two bone china cups and saucers that matched the one already on ffrench’s desk.

  ‘You were saying that you weren’t surprised, Mr ffrench,’ said Marriott.

  ‘Georgina Heath she was called back then, and a flighty little baggage to boot.’ The diplomat poured the tea and handed round the cups. ‘Whenever there was a dance or a ball – and there were plenty of them before the war – Georgina was always there. I suppose she must’ve been about seventeen when my wife and I first met her. Her parents were acquaintances of ours; her father was actually a work colleague. Dead now, of course; he was posted to Africa somewhere and died of malaria. Georgina had just finished her schooling at St Edward’s College, and was clearly set on trapping a man into wedlock as quickly as possible. In fact, she had quite a reputation, and not a very creditable one at that.’

  ‘What exactly d’you mean by that, sir?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Do I have to spell it out, Inspector?’ Dudley ffrench raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘How shall I put it? She had a reputation for being a young lady of easy virtue.’

  ‘And presumably Commander Cheney succumbed to her charms,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Head over heels, old boy. As I recall, he was a lieutenant at the time, holding some vague sort of appointment on the Governor’s staff. I think Bob first met Georgina at a ball at Admiralty House. I was there with my wife, and Georgina unashamedly set her cap at Bob. They were married in about …’ He paused in thought. ‘Yes, I was right; it was 1905. She’d’ve been nineteen then, and Bob was about eight years her senior. The wedding was at St Paul’s Anglican Cathedral in Valletta, and was quite a swish affair, I can tell you. An archway of naval officers with drawn swords – all the sort of palaver the navy loves – and whisked off in a carriage drawn by a team of sweating matelots. The honeymoon was spent at a hotel in Pembroke on the east of the island where, one supposes, the marriage was consummated.’ Dudley ffrench emitted a cynical laugh. ‘But local scuttlebutt suggested that they’d had quite a few practice runs, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘Was there anyone you know of who might’ve been having an affair with her, perhaps after her marriage?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Possibly,’ said ffrench pensively. ‘Bob returned to England at the end of 1912 and sent for Georgina some time the following year. If I remember correctly, she must’ve been without her husband for a good six months before he sent for her. Mind you, she’d got two children by then, but that wouldn’t have stopped her. Everyone had servants galore, of course. Butlers, housemaids, nursemaids and all that sort of thing. You didn’t have to lift a finger for yourself.’

  ‘I suppose you wouldn’t happen to remember the names of any of the people she was close to, would you, sir?’

  ‘There was one young fellow. A barrister by the name of Rollo Henson. Only a year or two older than Georgina, I’d’ve thought. They were often seen dancing at the various balls. But there could well have been others.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr ffrench,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘If there’s anything else I can help with, you know where to find me,’ said ffrench as he shook hands.

  ‘Most kind, sir,’ murmured Hardcastle. ‘Should you think of anything else, I’m only across the road at Cannon Row police station.’

  FIVE

  ‘At least we have a name to go on now, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle when the two detectives were back at Cannon Row. ‘This here Rollo Henson that Mr ffrench mentioned.’

  ‘Henson doesn’t come between A and C, sir,’ observed Marriott.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about, Marriott?’ snapped Hardcastle, staring at his sergeant. ‘I do know how to spell.’

  ‘The pages A to C were torn out of Mrs Cheney’s address book, sir.’

  ‘Well, I know that, Marriott. It was me what found they had been.’

  ‘What I mean is that Henson is unlikely to be the person Mrs Cheney was in the act of writing to, sir. Otherwise she’d’ve torn out the page with H on it.’

  ‘We don’t know she wrote it,’ said Hardcastle sternly, ‘and it’s very dangerous to jump to conclusions of that sort in a murder investigation.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ It was an observation that so contradicted the DDI’s own methods that Marriott could think of no other reply.

  ‘But is Henson’s name in the book?’ persisted Hardcastle. ‘It’ll be under H,’ he added wryly.

  Ignoring the DDI’s jibe, Marriott flipped quickly through the pages of the address book. ‘It’s not here, sir.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott proffered the book.

  ‘All right, all right.’ Hardcastle waved it away. ‘Ain’t there a list of barristers kept somewhere?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s called the Law List.’

  ‘Best get hold of that there Law List, then, and see if our Mr
Henson’s name is in it.’

  ‘It’ll be across at the Yard, sir. They’ve got a library over there.’

  ‘Good, and while you’re there see if Mr Collins has got any more results for us.’

  It was half an hour before Marriott returned.

  ‘First of all, sir, Mr Collins said that he has nothing to add to what he told you earlier today. He was at a loss to understand why you thought he might have.’

  ‘Never mind that.’ Hardcastle dismissed Collins’ mild rebuke with a wave of his hand. ‘What about Henson?’

  ‘Rollo Henson was born in Tavistock, Devon, in 1883, sir, and was called to the bar of Inner Temple in 1904.’ Marriott glanced up from his notes. ‘He has chambers in Fountain Court.’

  ‘Does he indeed? Time we had a word with him, then.’

  ‘There’s always a chance that he might be at the Old Bailey, sir.’

  Hardcastle seized his hat and umbrella. ‘Well, at least we know where that is,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, this looks like it, Marriott.’ Hardcastle paused on the steps of a set of chambers in Fountain Court, examined the board at the side of the door and ran his finger down the list of names. ‘Yes, this is the place. Several KCs, Marriott, but Henson ain’t one of them. Still wears a stuff gown, I suppose.’ He pushed open the door and made his way to the clerks’ office.

  ‘Yes?’ A middle-aged man wearing a black jacket, pinstriped trousers and a wing collar turned to face the two detectives. For a moment or two he appraised them with a lugubrious expression and then tweaked his waxed moustache.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr Rollo Henson,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Are you a solicitor, sir?’ asked the clerk, crossing from the filing cabinet.

  ‘No, a police officer.’

  ‘Which case?’

  ‘What d’you mean, which case?’

  ‘Which case are you involved in?’ asked the clerk, enunciating each word as though Hardcastle was hard of hearing, and peering at him over half-moon spectacles. ‘I have to get the brief out, you see. Otherwise Mr Henson won’t know what you’ve come to see him about.’

  ‘I haven’t got a case yet,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’m still collecting evidence in a murder enquiry, and Mr Henson may have some to give me.’