Hardcastle's Quartet

by Graham Ison

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Just after it happened, sir. The end of March. But I wasn’t able to tell them anything about the mistress.’

  ‘You might know more than you think. Can we come in?’

  ‘I s’pose it’ll be all right, sir.’ The maid hesitated briefly and then led the way into the drawing room at the front of the house.

  ‘Sit yourself down, lass,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and tell me your name.’

  ‘It’s Millie, sir. Millie Roberts.’

  ‘And how long have you been employed here, Millie?’ asked Marriott.

  Millie looked at Marriott and smiled. ‘About a year, sir.’

  ‘And I presume the colonel is still away.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He come home for the funeral, but then he said he had to go straight back to France, to a place called Amy something.’

  ‘That would be Amiens,’ said Marriott.

  ‘And you’ve been by yourself ever since, have you, Millie?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The colonel said as how I was to stay on for when he got leave.’

  ‘Tell me about the night Mrs Lacey was murdered, Millie,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘It was awful, sir.’ Millie gave a convulsive sob. ‘The mistress said she was going out—’

  ‘What time was that?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘It must’ve been about six o’clock. I remember that because cook asked her if she’d be in for dinner, but the mistress said she was going out. Then she looked at me, after cook had gone back downstairs, and gave me a funny little smile, and said that she wouldn’t be back till the morning.’

  ‘Did she tell you where she was going?’

  ‘Sort of. She said she was going to a ball and it’d go on till late and so she’d put up at a hotel.’

  ‘Did she say where this hotel was?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘No, she never, but I thought it must be up the West End somewhere.’

  ‘Did she say where this ball was being held or anything at all about it?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Millie. ‘And then next morning this policeman come to the door and told me the awful news. He wanted to know how he could get in touch with the colonel.’

  ‘What did you say to that?’

  ‘I told him I didn’t know ’cept to say I thought he was in France. So the policeman said he’d get in touch with the War Office. Then the colonel come home about two days later and took care of the funeral.’

  ‘This cook you mentioned, Millie,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Does she still work here?’

  ‘No, sir, she left just after it happened. The master said that there was no need for her to stay on any more.’

  ‘D’you happen to know where she went?’

  ‘She got a position at one of the houses in Yeoman’s Row straight off, sir. A house belonging to a Mrs Buckley, I believe. I don’t know the number, but it’s not far from here.’

  ‘And the cook’s name?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Mrs Pollard. Mabel Pollard.’

  ‘Did Mrs Lacey have any gentlemen callers, Millie?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Not that I know of, unless they came when it was my evening off, sir.’

  ‘Did Mrs Lacey mention who she was going with to this ball? On the night she was murdered.’

  ‘No, sir, she never said.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Millie,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Have you any idea when Colonel Lacey is coming on leave again?’

  ‘No, sir. We never knew in advance. He’d just arrive, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘If he should come home in the near future perhaps you’d ask him to get in touch with Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle at Cannon Row police station.’

  ‘Are we going to speak to this Mrs Pollard while we’re in the area, sir?’ asked Marriott, as he and Hardcastle left the Laceys’ Ovington Square house.

  ‘We don’t know which house it is, Marriott, and I’m not traipsing up and down Yeoman’s Row knocking on doors. No, get someone to find out which house this here Mrs Buckley lives in and we’ll call there tomorrow.’

  ELEVEN

  Detective Sergeant Wood was waiting for Hardcastle when the DDI returned to the police station.

  ‘Have you got some answers for me, Wood?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve sent Keeler up to Somerset House to see what can be found about Hannah Clarke, but he’s not back yet.’

  ‘What about the funeral? Find out anything about that, did you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Wood referred to his pocketbook. ‘It was a firm of undertakers called Crosby and Sons with offices in the Old Brompton Road right next door to the cemetery. The arrangements were made by a young woman who gave the name of Kitty Gordon.’

  ‘Who the hell’s she?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, sir, but I got a description. Mr Crosby – he’s the boss – said that she was tall and slender with long blonde hair, and aged about twenty-one.’

  ‘That sounds very much like Hannah Clarke to me,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But why did she give a false name, I wonder? If it is her.’

  Wood had no answer for that. ‘I spoke to Messrs Harrods on the telephone, sir, and—’

  ‘That was very adventurous of you, Wood,’ commented the DDI, to whom the telephone was anathema. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Apparently they received a telephone call from Commander Cheney asking them to make the necessary arrangements for the funeral of Mrs Georgina Cheney, sir. He explained that he was a serving naval officer and about to return to duty. They undertook to collect Mrs Cheney’s body from the mortuary and deal with it all.’

  ‘What the hell happened, then?’ demanded Hardcastle.

  ‘Harrods then received a letter from Commander Cheney cancelling all the arrangements without explanation. I took the liberty of obtaining the letter, sir.’ Wood handed over the document.

  ‘God damn it!’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘What’s that little bitch playing at? I’m sure that this young woman who said she was Kitty Gordon is our Hannah Clarke. I think we’ll need to get in touch with Commander Cheney again, and see if he can shed any light on it. Mind you,’ he added dolefully, ‘he’s probably at sea somewhere. Anyway, that’s for me to worry about. But now I’ve got another job for you, Wood.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yesterday Sergeant Marriott and me called at Ovington Square and spoke to the housemaid.’ Seeing Wood’s puzzled expression, Hardcastle explained, ‘That’s where Hazel Lacey lived.’

  ‘Oh yes. She was the woman murdered at the Wardour Hotel in Wardour Street back in March, sir.’

  ‘Correct. The housemaid at Ovington Square said that Mrs Pollard, the Laceys’ cook, left their employment shortly after the murder and took a post with a Mrs Buckley in Yeoman’s Row. Get someone to find out which house it is.’

  ‘Very good, sir. D’you want me to make enquiries of this Mrs Pollard?’

  ‘No, I’ll do that, Wood. Is Catto back yet?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He came in shortly before you returned.’

  ‘Send him in.’

  ‘I found the porter who carried Miss Clarke’s bags into Victoria Station, sir,’ said Catto, hovering uncertainly in the DDI’s doorway.

  ‘Are you going to let me in on the secret, then, Catto?’ asked Hardcastle impatiently.

  ‘She caught a train to West Worthing, sir,’ said Catto triumphantly.

  ‘Did she now? I wonder where she went from there. I suppose we could ask the Worthing police to check with the cab companies, but I don’t hold out much hope.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Catto.

  ‘No, sir, Catto?’ repeated Hardcastle, and glared at the DC. ‘You’re not supposed to agree with me, Catto. You’re a detective and you ought to come up with a bright idea.’

  ‘I could go to Worthing and make the enquiries myself, sir,’ Catto suggested tentatively.

  ‘Good idea, Catto. Do it. But let the Worthing police know you’re there. I don’t want them complaining that you’re clodhopping about on their patch
without their say-so.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Pleasantly surprised, Catto left the office before the DDI could change his mind.

  Hardcastle picked up his pipe from the ashtray and crossed to the detectives’ office.

  ‘I was just coming to see you, sir,’ said DC Basil Keeler. ‘I’m afraid I drew a blank at Somerset House. There are dozens of Hannah Clarkes, but there wasn’t one who could necessarily be the one who was Mrs Cheney’s housemaid.’

  ‘All right, Keeler,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’d guessed that might be the case. It seems that she’s in the habit of changing her name if what Sergeant Wood found out is anything to go by.’ He glanced at the first-class sergeant. ‘Marriott, a moment of your time.’

  ‘Sir.’ Marriott donned his jacket and followed the DDI into his office.

  ‘A thought has crossed my mind, Marriott.’

  ‘It has, sir?’ Marriott was always apprehensive at such an announcement.

  ‘D’you remember when we talked to Beatrice Groves, Mrs Hardy’s cleaning lady?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘She told us that a housemaid had been employed by the Hardys, but that she’d left before Mrs Groves arrived on the scene.’

  ‘She did, sir, but she said she didn’t know the girl’s name.’

  ‘But Major Hardy might know.’

  ‘He’s in France, sir.’ Marriott was horrified that the DDI was about to suggest a trip to the war zone. He was not so worried for himself, but rather what his wife Lorna might have to say about it. Furthermore, he could not understand why Hardcastle was taking an interest in the Hardys’ former housemaid.

  Hardcastle laughed. ‘Don’t look so concerned, Marriott,’ he said, guessing what was going through his sergeant’s mind. ‘I might be a dedicated detective, but I’m not that dedicated. No, we’ll ask Colonel Frobisher to get a message to him. See to it, will you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Are you on your own, Charlie?’ Sergeant Glover, the APM’s chief clerk, was surprised that for once Marriott was not accompanied by Hardcastle.

  ‘He sometimes lets me out by myself, Cyril. I’ve got a favour to ask, but I don’t think it’s necessary to bother the colonel with it.’

  ‘Fire away,’ said Glover, moving a pad across his desk.

  Marriott explained about the murder of Blanche Hardy and the problem of identifying the Cheneys’ former housemaid. ‘Would it be possible to get a message to Major Hardy asking him if he knew the girl’s name, Cyril?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult, Charlie.’ Glover made no comment about what he thought was a rather bizarre request. ‘Once we find out where Major Hardy is.’

  ‘All I can tell you is that he’s with the Tank Corps, Cyril.’

  ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose, but there are a lot of them. Last time I looked there were at least twenty-five battalions of the Tank Corps, but I’ll see what I can do. It’s something that they’re all in France. Well, I think they are.’

  Only ten minutes had elapsed before Detective Sergeant Wood returned to the DDI’s office and placed a slip of paper on the desk.

  ‘Mrs Buckley’s address in Yeoman’s Row, sir.’

  Hardcastle stared at Wood. ‘How on earth did you find that out so quickly, Wood?’ he asked.

  ‘I telephoned the sorting office, sir, and the head postmaster told me.’

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Hardcastle, and in a rare admission added, ‘There are times, Wood, when I think this job is passing me by.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Wood.

  ‘You’re not supposed to agree with me, Wood,’ growled the DDI. ‘Ask Sergeant Marriott to come in when he gets back from seeing the APM.’

  Detective Constable Henry Catto was more of a detective than Hardcastle gave him credit for. He had checked that West Worthing railway station was closer to the police station in Ann Street than was the main railway station. It was less than a mile and he could easily walk that short distance. He knew that the DDI would disallow the cost of a cab fare, and Catto could not afford to pay for it out of his own pocket; certainly not on his pay.

  ‘And what can I do for you, young man?’ enquired an elderly sergeant, as Catto approached the counter of the police station.

  ‘I’m Detective Constable Catto of the Metropolitan Police, Whitehall Division, Sergeant.’

  ‘Are you now? Come down to help us with our suspicious death, have you?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about a suspicious death, Sergeant, at least not down here. My DDI’s dealing with three murders in London, though.’

  ‘My word, you are busy chaps up there in the Smoke. Well, what can I do for you?’

  Catto explained about the mysterious departure of Hannah Clarke and told the sergeant briefly about her connection with the murder of Georgina Cheney.

  ‘I’m wondering if you can tell me the names of any cab companies that might have picked her up at West Worthing station. I reckon she must’ve arrived at just after one o’clock yesterday.’ Catto had already examined train timetables and had concluded, given what he had learned at Victoria station, that that was the most likely time of Hannah Clarke’s arrival.

  ‘There’s only the one company licensed to operate from West Worthing station, Mr Catto,’ said the sergeant, ‘and that’s Star Cabs. Here, I’ll jot down the address for you. It’s not far from here. I’d send one of my chaps with you, but like I said when you got here, they’re all tied up with this suspicious death. A young woman was found washed up on the beach early this morning. Been swimming, so they say, but must’ve got into difficulties.’

  ‘Thanks, Sergeant.’ Catto could not immediately understand why a drowned woman should take up so much of the Worthing police’s time. ‘It’s a bit of a long shot, but my guv’nor’s a stickler for detail.’

  ‘Aren’t they all,’ said the sergeant with feeling.

  A butler, wearing the traditional tailcoat of his calling, answered the door of Mrs Buckley’s residence in Yeoman’s Row.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘We’re police officers, and we’d like a word with Mrs Buckley. You can tell her I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of Scotland Yard,’ said the DDI.

  ‘Has something happened to Brigadier General Buckley, sir?’ The butler’s face took on a grave expression.

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’m making enquiries into a murder.’

  ‘Oh, I see. That’s all right, then.’ It seemed as though the butler did not regard a murder to be of great importance. ‘I’ll enquire if the mistress is at home, sir, if you’d care to step inside.’

  ‘We’re moving up in the world, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, as the two officers waited in the tiled hall. ‘We’ve gone from a sub-lieutenant all the way to a general.’

  ‘If you’d care to come this way, gentlemen,’ said the butler, reappearing from a door at the rear of the hall, ‘the mistress is in the drawing room.’

  ‘Hobbs tells me you’re from Scotland Yard.’ Mrs Buckley, an elegant woman probably approaching forty years of age, was seated in a low bergère armchair. ‘He said something about a murder.’

  Hardcastle introduced himself and Marriott, and explained about the murder of Hazel Lacey in the Wardour Hotel.

  ‘I read about it in The Times, Inspector. An awful thing to have happened, especially as her husband was on active service,’ said Mrs Buckley. ‘Curiously enough my cook, Mrs Pollard, worked for her.’

  ‘I know, madam,’ said Hardcastle. ‘That’s why I’m here. I’d like to have a word with her, if I may.’

  ‘Of course. D’you think she might be able to help?’

  ‘I shan’t know until I speak to her, madam.’

  ‘No, of course not. Silly me,’ said Mrs Buckley, with a gay laugh. ‘I’ll send for her.’

  ‘I’m quite happy to talk to her in the kitchen, madam,’ said Hardcastle, aware that domestic servants were more likely to be open when they were not in the presence
of their employers.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure, I’ll get Hobbs to show you the way.’ Mrs Buckley stood up and crossed to the bell-pull.

  ‘Madam?’ The butler appeared almost instantly.

  ‘Hobbs, perhaps you’d show these gentlemen to the kitchen. They’d like a word with Mrs Pollard.’

  ‘Certainly, madam,’ said the butler. He led the way into the hall and down the stairs to the kitchen. ‘An inspector from Scotland Yard’s here to see you, Mrs Pollard. What have you been up to, eh?’

  ‘I really don’t know what you’re on about, Mr Hobbs.’ Mrs Pollard, a buxom, rosy-faced woman, wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Come into the servants’ hall and take a seat, gents. I dare say you’d like a cup of tea.’ She glanced at the butler. ‘I’ll bring you a cup in your pantry, Mr Hobbs,’ she said, by way of implied dismissal.

  ‘I’m enquiring into the murder of Mrs Hazel Lacey, Mrs Pollard,’ said Hardcastle, once he and Marriott were seated at the kitchen table with cups of tea in front of them.

  ‘Dreadful, quite dreadful,’ said Mrs Pollard, ‘but not surprising.’

  ‘Why aren’t you surprised?’

  Mrs Pollard placed her plump arms on the table, linking her hands together. ‘Between you and me, Inspector, Mrs Lacey was a bit of a good-time girl.’

  ‘What makes you say that, Mrs Pollard?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘There was always some young man calling at the house and taking her off to the theatre or to supper. And her poor husband away at the Front fighting for King and Country. Disgraceful, I calls it. You wouldn’t see the general’s wife getting up to such shenanigans, I can tell you.’

  ‘We’ve been told that on the night she was murdered, she was at the Wardour Hotel with a gentleman called Kenneth Reeves,’ continued Marriott. ‘Does that name mean anything to you?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, no. I was in the kitchen most of the time, but even down here you get to hear things.’

  ‘Did she often go out?’ asked Hardcastle, accepting Mrs Pollard’s offer of a second cup of tea and a slice of plum cake.

  ‘According to the maid, she was out most evenings.’

  ‘We spoke to Millie, the maid there now, Mrs Pollard,’ said Marriott, ‘but she was only taken on after the last maid left. D’you happen to know her name?’