Hardcastle's Quartet

by Graham Ison

  ‘Yes I do,’ said Mrs Pollard firmly. ‘I had more than one run-in with her. A saucy blonde baggage, she was, with ideas above her station. More than once I had to remind her that she was only a housemaid. But she upped sticks and left the very morning that we heard poor Mrs Lacey had been killed.’

  ‘But what was her name?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Kitty Gordon,’ said Mrs Pollard, ‘and she was only part-time.’

  Catto’s enquiry of the cab company was much easier than he had dared hope.

  ‘Yeah, I took the lady, Officer. Not likely to forget a pretty bit of fluff like that one,’ said a cab driver who was waiting in the office for a fare.

  ‘Where did you take her?’ asked Catto.

  ‘A nice little private hotel, Officer. It’s called Sea View.’

  ‘How do I get there?’ asked Catto.

  ‘I’ll run you up there,’ said the driver. ‘It ain’t far from here.’

  ‘My guv’nor won’t let me charge for a cab,’ said Catto. ‘I’ll have to walk or maybe catch a bus.’

  ‘That’s all right, Officer. I won’t charge you, seeing as you’re the law on official business,’ said the cabbie. ‘Always willing to help the police.’

  To Catto’s surprise the Sea View Hotel on Marine Parade did indeed have a sea view. He ascended the steps, entered the reception area and struck a bell on the small counter. Moments later a middle-aged woman appeared.

  ‘I’m afraid we shan’t have any vacancies until tomorrow,’ said the woman. ‘Didn’t you see the sign in the window?’

  ‘I’m not here for a room, madam, I’m a police officer,’ said Catto, and produced his warrant card.

  ‘Oh, that’s different, then. I’m Mrs Croft, and my husband and I own this hotel. How can I help you, Constable?’

  ‘I’m making enquiries about a young lady who booked in here yesterday. At about half past one, I should think. Her name is Hannah Clarke.’

  Mrs Croft shook her head. ‘I can tell you for certain that no one of that name arrived yesterday,’ she said. ‘Only one young lady booked in and she said her name was Kitty Gordon. She had two suitcases and a valise with her, and said that she’d be staying for a week. She paid in advance.’

  The name meant nothing to Catto, who had not been privy to Hardcastle’s conversation with Detective Sergeant Wood.

  ‘What did she look like, Mrs Croft?’

  ‘Tall with long blonde hair,’ said Mrs Croft thoughtfully. ‘Oh, and she was dressed all in black complete with a veil, as though she’d been to a funeral. I thought it was rather a strange outfit to wear to the seaside.’

  ‘Is she here now, madam?’ asked Catto.

  ‘No, she’s not, and that’s the funny thing. She went out last evening at about six o’clock saying that she was going for a walk along the front. Then she was meeting someone for supper and that she’d be back at about half past ten. She seemed a respectable young woman and I gave her a key so’s she could let herself in. It’s not something I do for all my paying guests.’ Mrs Croft paused. ‘But she never returned.’

  ‘You’re sure of that, Mrs Croft?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Her bed hadn’t been slept in.’

  ‘When she went out was she still wearing the black clothing she’d arrived in?’

  ‘No. She’d changed into a rather smart white frock with a panama hat and an umbrella. Oh, and she had one of those little bead handbags. I shouldn’t think she’d’ve got more than one of those new powder compacts into it, and she looked the sort of girl who might’ve owned one.’ Mrs Croft accompanied the last comment with a disdainful lift of her head.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Croft,’ said Catto, pleased that he had spoken to the lady of the establishment. He doubted that the woman’s husband would have been able to furnish such a detailed description of what the mysterious Kitty Gordon had been wearing.

  As he left the hotel, Catto began wondering about the missing woman and the story that the Worthing sergeant had told him about the body that had been found on the beach that morning. He determined that he would return to Ann Street police station and pass on the information he had just gleaned.

  ‘Ah, you’re back again, Mr Catto,’ said the sergeant. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant, but I picked up a bit of information that might help you.’

  ‘Oh, we’re always glad of assistance from you London chaps,’ said the sergeant airily, but Catto sensed that there was a tinge of sarcasm in the comment. ‘Solved our dead body for us, have you?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Catto, and related what he had learned from Mrs Croft.

  ‘I think you’d better have a word with Superintendent Potts. He’s the divisional commander and he’s taken charge of the investigation.’

  ‘Don’t you have any CID officers, then?’ asked Catto.

  ‘No, we don’t, Mr Catto,’ said the sergeant sharply, as though his force was being criticized. He lifted the flap in the counter. ‘Come through and I’ll show you to Mr Potts’ office.’

  The sergeant led Catto up a flight of stairs and knocked deferentially on a door.

  ‘This is Detective Constable Catto of the Metropolitan Police, sir. He thinks he might have some information in connection with the body found on the beach his morning.’

  ‘Come in, boy,’ said Potts, and glanced at the Worthing officer. ‘That’ll be all, Sergeant, thank you,’ he said curtly. Once the station officer had left the room, Potts said, ‘It doesn’t do to let the lower ranks know too much about what’s going on. They have this habit of gossiping. Now then, I don’t know how you think you can help, because it’s obviously an accidental drowning, but I’ll tell you what I know. A young woman, as yet unidentified, was found on the beach at about six o’clock this morning. She was attired in a bathing dress and it looks as though she’d drowned. The current here can be a bit tricky at times, especially for the unwary.’

  ‘It might just be a coincidence, sir,’ said Catto, ‘but I was making some enquiries at the Sea View Hotel earlier today.’ He went on to tell Superintendent Potts what he had learned from Mrs Croft about the absence of her guest. ‘This young lady told Mrs Croft at the Sea View that her name was Kitty Gordon, but she fits the description of a Miss Hannah Clarke. My DDI is anxious to have a word with her in connection with the murders he’s investigating.’

  Potts emitted a humourless laugh. ‘Well, if it is her, he’s too late, isn’t he?’ He opened a large daybook and took out a fountain pen. ‘What’s the name of your inspector, Mr Catto?’

  ‘Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, sir. He’s at Cannon Row police station.’

  ‘It might just be that you’ve identified our young woman for us,’ said Potts. ‘I’ll speak to your Mr Hardcastle on the telephone and see what he wants to do about it. If it is the woman he’s interested in. It might be that he’ll want you to stay here to make further enquiries. On the other hand, he might want to come down here.’ Without further ado, Potts removed the earpiece from his ‘candlestick’ telephone, jiggled the rest and asked to be connected to Cannon Row police station in London.

  It took some time for the connection to be made, and a little longer for Hardcastle to be located. Even so the conversation lasted only a short time. Potts turned to Catto as he replaced the earpiece. ‘I got the impression that your inspector doesn’t like telephones too much, Mr Catto. Anyway he’s coming down and he’ll be arriving at West Worthing railway station at twenty minutes to three. He said you’re to meet him there. Incidentally, he said that he believed Kitty Gordon to be a name used by this Hannah Clarke he’s interested in.’

  TWELVE

  Catto made sure that he was at West Worthing railway station in Oxford Road well in time to meet the DDI’s train.

  ‘Well, Catto,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott passed through the ticket barrier, ‘according to the superintendent down here it seems you’ve been doing some detec
tive work.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ As they walked towards the cab rank, Catto explained what he had learned during his time in Worthing.

  ‘You’ll be interested to know, Catto, that the woman who made the arrangements for Mrs Cheney’s funeral gave the name of Kitty Gordon. So, it looks very much like this here body the locals have found is Hannah Clarke. However, we’ll know for sure when I cast my eye over her body in the mortuary.’

  But when the three detectives reached Ann Street police station there were further revelations.

  Once introductions had been effected, Superintendent Potts pulled a docket across his desk.

  ‘It gets interesting, Mr Hardcastle. A member of the pier-master’s staff doing the daily check on lifebelts found a quantity of clothing and an umbrella in a lifebelt locker at the end of the pier.’ Potts looked up. ‘They match exactly the clothes that your Mr Catto was told by the landlady of the Sea View Hotel that our victim was wearing when she left there yesterday.’ He stared at Hardcastle. ‘We do know how to go about enquiries of this sort down here, Mr Hardcastle.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, Mr Potts,’ said Hardcastle, mildly irritated by the superintendent’s attitude. ‘Was there by any chance a handbag?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, there was.’ Potts retrieved a reticule from his in-tray. ‘A bead handbag containing a single key, a handkerchief and a National Registration identity card in the name of Queenie Rogers. Her date of birth was shown to be the third of March 1893. There is also a reference dated March 1917 written by a Mrs Blanche Hardy for a housemaid in the name of Kitty Gordon.’ He handed the documents to Hardcastle. ‘There’s a photograph in the identity card, of course.’

  ‘Well I’ll be buggered!’ exclaimed Hardcastle, as he studied the photograph. ‘That’s Hannah Clarke, or at least the name she gave us when we first interviewed her.’

  ‘In view of the circumstances, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Potts, ‘I’ve asked for Dr Bernard Spilsbury to attend from London to examine the body. I think we might have a murder on our hands.’

  ‘Where is the body, Mr Potts?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘At Worthing Hospital in Lyndhurst Road, Mr Hardcastle. I’ve asked Dr Spilsbury to go straight there and he assured me that he’ll arrive by six o’clock.’

  ‘It seems a bit of a strange thing to do, sir,’ said Marriott, addressing the Worthing superintendent, ‘but is it possible that Miss Clarke, or whatever her real name was, decided to have a swim and left her clothes in the locker?’

  ‘I doubt it, Sergeant,’ said Potts. ‘While I was waiting for you and Mr Hardcastle to arrive, I sent an officer to the Sea View Hotel to interview Mrs Croft. We do like to be sure of our facts. I’ll not tolerate any sloppiness on my division. Mrs Croft confirmed what she’d told your constable: that when the young woman she knew as Kitty Gordon left the hotel she was only carrying an umbrella and this handbag.’ He picked it up and flourished it. ‘And I defy anyone to secrete a bathing dress in that.’

  Hardcastle took out his hunter and glanced at it. ‘I dare say we could fill in the time while we’re waiting for the good doctor. Allow me to buy you a pint, Mr Potts. I take it you know of a decent alehouse hereabouts.’

  ‘Of course I do, Mr Hardcastle, I’m in charge of the Worthing Division. But I have work to do. By the way, I’ve spoken to the Chief Constable and he’d be grateful if you could assist us in our enquiries.’

  ‘That’s not possible, Mr Potts,’ said Hardcastle, mildly irritated at Potts’ refusal to join him for a drink. ‘Sir Edward Henry, the Commissioner, is adamant that Metropolitan Police officers will only assist county forces if an official request is made by your Chief Constable and that the deputed Scotland Yard officer is put in charge of the investigation. Furthermore,’ he added, ‘the county force would have to pay all the expenses involved.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Potts, his face expressing annoyance at Hardcastle’s response. ‘I’ll see you at the mortuary.’

  When Hardcastle and Marriott, along with Superintendent Potts, arrived at the mortuary, Dr Bernard Spilsbury was still at work on the cadaver of Kitty Gordon.

  ‘I caught an earlier train and made a start,’ he said. Looking up, he saw Hardcastle, stopped work immediately and peeled off his rubber gloves. ‘My dear Hardcastle,’ he said warmly as he shook hands, ‘what on earth are you doing here? Aren’t there enough murders in London for you to solve? You told me that you’d already got three on your plate.’

  ‘I don’t know if this is a murder until you tell me, sir,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But this young lady was housemaid to Georgina Cheney. Hence my interest.’

  ‘Was she indeed? But I was given to understand that this woman’s name was Kitty Gordon.’

  ‘I identified her as the woman I knew as Hannah Clarke, sir. And it’s been established by the local police that she was also known as Queenie Rogers.’

  ‘What an intriguing puzzle, my dear Hardcastle,’ said Spilsbury. ‘I think that what I have to tell you will confirm that she was murdered.’

  Superintendent Potts emitted an affected cough.

  ‘By the way, Doctor,’ said Hardcastle casually, ‘this is Superintendent Potts of the local force. He’s looking into this suspicious death.’

  Spilsbury nodded in the superintendent’s direction. ‘Potts,’ he murmured.

  ‘I’m actually in charge of the investigation, sir,’ said Potts, tugging at his walrus moustache, ‘and in charge of the Worthing Division.’

  ‘You’re very lucky to have Inspector Hardcastle here, then, Potts,’ said Spilsbury. ‘He’s very good at this sort of thing.’ It was a comment that did not please the superintendent. ‘However,’ he continued, rubbing his hands together, ‘I’ve already finished carving up this young lady and I’m about to sew her up again. Come and have a look.’ He gestured at the body on the slab. Where the pathologist had examined the victim, large flaps of flesh from the chest and stomach lay open like the petals of a huge flower.

  ‘I think I’ll wait outside, sir,’ said a white-faced Potts, and promptly left the room.

  ‘What can you tell me, sir?’ asked Hardcastle, turning back from having observed, with a wry smile, the hurried exit of the superintendent.

  ‘There was an absence of water in the lungs, Hardcastle, so you can rule out drowning,’ said Spilsbury. ‘This young woman had been strangled.’

  ‘So it is murder,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘I would say so, unless she strangled herself prior to throwing herself into the sea,’ said Spilsbury, with a chuckle. ‘But, joking aside, you know as well as I that one cannot strangle oneself. Unconsciousness supervenes and the hands will relax. However, I gather from what the bold superintendent said that it’s not your problem.’

  ‘Only indirectly, sir,’ said Hardcastle. ‘As I said just now, she was Mrs Cheney’s housemaid, but I gather from what was found among her belongings that she was also employed in that capacity by Mrs Hardy, another of the murder victims whose death I’m investigating. You did the post-mortem.’

  ‘I remember. It looks as though you’ll be kept busy, my dear fellow.’

  ‘I’ll let you get on with your needlework then, Doctor,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’ve a few leads to follow up in London.’ Leaving Dr Spilsbury to stitch up his cadaver, Marriott and Hardcastle left the dissecting room and went in search of the Worthing superintendent.

  ‘Well, Mr Hardcastle?’ Potts stood up, pinched the tip of his cigarette to extinguish it, and dropped the butt into an ashtray on the wall. ‘What’s the result?’

  ‘The result, Mr Potts, is that you’ve got a murder on your hands,’ said Hardcastle, with undisguised relish, and repeated the pathologist’s findings. ‘However, me and my sergeant are off back to London.’

  ‘But can’t you stay and give me a hand?’ implored Potts, all trace of his earlier bombast now gone.

  ‘As I made clear earlier, Mr Potts, that will only happen if your Chief Constable makes an official request to the Commissioner
of Police of the Metropolis for assistance. Good day to you.’ But secretly, Hardcastle hoped that he would be required to assist. He was now convinced that the murder of Hannah Clarke, alias Kitty Gordon, whose real name it appeared was Queenie Rogers, was inextricably involved with the three London murders he was already investigating.

  ‘D’you think the Chief Constable will ask the Yard for assistance, sir?’ asked Marriott, as he and Hardcastle left Worthing Hospital in search of a cab to take them to the railway station.

  ‘It would be useful, Marriott. I’ve got a feeling that whoever topped Hannah Clarke, or whatever her bloody name really is, has got to be tied up in the murders of all three of our victims. By the way, where’s Catto gone?’

  ‘I took the liberty of sending him back to London, sir.’

  ‘Very wise, Marriott, very wise.’

  The following morning, a Saturday, Hardcastle was at his desk by half past eight. At nine o’clock, just as he had got his pipe satisfactorily alight, Detective Sergeant Marriott appeared in the DDI’s office.

  ‘Yes, what is it, Marriott?’

  ‘I’ve just taken a call from Mr Wensley’s clerk, sir. You’re to see Mr Wensley immediately.’

  ‘I bet I know what that’s about, Marriott.’ Hardcastle stood up, took his hat and umbrella from the hatstand and hurried across the narrow road that separated Cannon Row police station from Commissioner’s Office.

  ‘Come in, Ernie,’ said ‘Ace’ Wensley. ‘I expect you know why I’ve sent for you.’

  ‘Worthing, sir?’

  ‘Exactly. The Chief Constable of West Sussex Constabulary has made an official request for the services of the Metropolitan Police to investigate the murder of Queenie Rogers, alias Kitty Gordon and, I believe, Hannah Clarke. As it’s obviously connected with at least two of the three murders you’re already investigating, I’m assigning you. I know you’ve already got a lot to deal with, but I have a feeling that if you solve this one, you’ll have cleared up the others.’