Hardcastle's Quartet

by Graham Ison

  ‘Now here’s someone who might be of assistance, Marriott,’ suggested Hardcastle, as he sighted a postwoman. ‘Excuse me, miss. We’re police officers,’ he said, raising his hat. He produced his warrant card, knowing that an officer of the Royal Mail would be unlikely to impart information unless she was sure of his identity. ‘Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of Scotland Yard.’

  ‘How can I help you, sir?’

  ‘This house here,’ continued Hardcastle, pointing. ‘Have you ever delivered letters there?’

  ‘Quite a few times. But the last occasion must’ve been a week back, I suppose. I can’t recall making another delivery since then. I s’pose they must’ve moved.’

  ‘D’you happen to remember the name on the letters, miss?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Half a mo’. The postwoman took out a notebook and flicked through its pages. ‘I keep a list, you see,’ she explained. ‘I do it in case there’s ever an air raid and people are killed or injured. You’d be surprised how useful that can be if the police are trying to find out who lived where. Now then, ah, here we are. A Miss Queenie Rogers is the only person I’ve got down, and that was the name on the letter I delivered.’

  ‘Thank you, miss,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’ That information came as no surprise; it was, after all, the name that was on the ration book found in Kitty Gordon’s possessions.

  ‘There was a letter for a man a few weeks ago,’ said the postwoman, ‘but I can’t remember the name. I certainly don’t have a man listed in my book.’

  ‘Right,’ said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott turned towards Putney High Street. ‘I think we’ll get a warrant and see what’s inside that there drum.’

  Once Hardcastle had attested to his reasons for requiring a search warrant, the stipendiary magistrate at South-Western police court did not quibble.

  An hour later, Hardcastle and Marriott were back at the Disraeli Road address, together with two constables from Wandsworth police station.

  ‘Right, lad, get that door open,’ said Hardcastle.

  Using his truncheon to good effect, one of the constables broke the glass panel in the front door. Putting his hand through the hole he had made, he released the latch and stood back.

  ‘There you are, sir.’

  Hardcastle entered the hall and turned right into the parlour. For a moment or two he surveyed the room. It was sparsely furnished and tidy, but appeared not to have been cleaned for some time. Followed by Marriott, he went from room to room, floor by floor.

  On the first floor, the main bedroom contained only a bed, but it had been stripped down to the mattress. The other rooms on that floor, and all the rooms on the top floor, were empty.

  ‘There’s nothing here, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, with mounting frustration. ‘It looks as though we’ve wasted our bloody time. We’ll get back to the office.’ And he led the way back downstairs to the hall.

  ‘There’s something we missed, sir,’ said Marriott, pointing. Secured to the back of the front door and covering the letter box was a wire cage. Inside was a single letter. ‘It’s padlocked, sir.’

  ‘It won’t be for long.’ Hardcastle opened the front door. ‘Come in here, lad,’ he said, addressing one of the two constables. ‘See if you can get into that cage and get that letter out for me.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The PC launched a kick at the wire cage with such force that it broke away from the door and fell to the floor. ‘There we are, sir,’ he said, with a grin.

  ‘Good shot, lad,’ said Hardcastle, stooping to retrieve the letter. ‘You ought to play football for your division.’

  ‘I do, sir,’ said the PC.

  ‘This can’t be the letter that that postwoman was talking about, Marriott; it’s got no stamp on it and it’s just addressed to someone called Chester.’ Hardcastle opened the letter. ‘There’s no sender’s address on here and all it says is “It all worked out all right. The police don’t suspect me. I’ll meet you at Worthing as arranged.”’ He handed the letter to Marriott. ‘And it’s signed Queenie. She must’ve delivered it by hand, but Chester never picked it up. What d’you make of it?’

  ‘If the postwoman delivered a letter to Queenie Rogers a week ago, sir,’ said Marriott, ‘it means that she must’ve returned here sometime in the last week to pick it up and to leave the one we just found. And that was probably the letter that told Queenie to go to Worthing.’

  ‘I think they’re using this address just to exchange information, Marriott. It’s looks as though our Hannah Clarke, alias Queenie Rogers, and this Chester, whoever he is, are in some sort of fiddle together. But just what they’re up to remains to be seen. What’s more, if Queenie had arranged to meet this here Chester at Worthing, he’s likely our murderer. We’ve collected two address books so far. One at Whilber Street and the other one with Hannah’s possessions in Worthing.’

  ‘When we get back to the nick, sir, I’ll speak to Bert Wood. I gave him the two address books to check. Maybe he found a Chester in one of them.’

  ‘I doubt if we’ll have that much luck, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle gloomily. Turning to the footballing PC, he said, ‘One of you is to stand watch on this house while the other one goes back to the nick to arrange for the property to be made secure again.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Not wishing to spend a few hours standing outside an empty house, the PC made a decision. Going outside, he said to his colleague, ‘That DDI says you’re to hang on here, Alf, while I make arrangements to get that door mended.’

  ‘Just my bloody luck,’ said Alf.

  ‘Fetch Wood in here, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle when he and Marriott arrived back at Cannon Row police station.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Sergeant Marriott tells me you’ve been checking those two address books we found, Wood.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Not too much success, I’m afraid. The one found at Whilber Street had the pages A to C torn out and—’

  ‘I know that, Wood, but I’m more interested in the one we found at Worthing, the one that was in Hannah Clarke’s luggage. Was there a Chester someone in it?’

  ‘I believe there was, sir. I’ll fetch the book.’ Wood returned a few moments later. ‘There’s a telephone number listed against the name Chester, sir, but I don’t know whether that’s a surname or a Christian name.’

  ‘I think you can take it that it’s a Christian name, Wood. What was the address?’

  ‘There wasn’t an address, sir. Just a telephone number.’

  ‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense, Wood, spit it out.’

  ‘It was a Chiswick number, sir. I checked with the GPO and they said that the subscriber lived at an address in Rosemont Road, Acton.’

  ‘All right, Wood. That’ll do for the time being, but don’t go anywhere. I might need you later.’

  ‘Search warrant, sir?’ queried Marriott.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Hardcastle. ‘What was it that General Baden-Powell said? Softly, softly, catchee monkey, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I believe so, sir,’ said Marriott, having difficulty in making a connection between their murder enquiries and the World Chief Scout.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Hardcastle. ‘If we go blundering into that address and Chester ain’t there, someone is bound to hear about it and warn him. And if that happens he won’t return. No, Marriott, we’ll mount an observation.’

  ‘D’you have anyone in mind, sir?’

  Once again Hardcastle surprised his sergeant. ‘Catto and Carter, Marriott. Fetch ’em in.’ Lighting his pipe, he sat back and waited for the two DCs to appear.

  ‘You wanted to see us, sir?’ Gordon Carter, the senior of the two, assumed the role of spokesman.

  ‘I’ve got an observation job for you two at Acton. In Rosemont Road.’ Hardcastle explained exactly what the two detectives were to do. ‘But before you go, I’ll speak to Mr Buxton, the DDI on T Division. He might know of a suitable house opposite the one I’m intere
sted in. Then you can hole up there and keep watch. So, wait until I send for you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Carter was not happy about what could turn out to be a lengthy observation, and neither was Catto.

  ‘What d’you want us to do if we spot this Chester man, sir?’ Catto asked.

  ‘You get a message to me as fast as you can and sit tight, Catto. I’ll be down there straight away.’

  ‘See if you can get Mr Buxton on that telephone thing, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, once the two detectives had returned to their office.

  With an inaudible sigh, Marriott took hold of Hardcastle’s telephone and asked to be connected to the DDI on T Division.

  ‘Mr Buxton, sir.’ Marriott handed the earpiece to Hardcastle and moved the ‘candlestick’ apparatus nearer to the DDI.

  ‘Bert? It’s Ernie Hardcastle on A.’ Having explained to DDI Buxton what he wanted and why he wanted it, Hardcastle replaced the earpiece on its rest. ‘He said he’ll ring us back, Marriott, whatever that means.’

  ‘D’you want me to stay until he does, sir?’ asked Marriott, aware that if anything was to put Hardcastle in a bad mood it was having to contend with a telephone.

  ‘Certainly not, Marriott. I know how to deal with that thing.’ Hardcastle pointed at the offending instrument before leaning back and lighting his pipe. It was half an hour before he shouted for his sergeant.

  ‘Sir?’

  Hardcastle handed Marriott a slip of paper. ‘Mr Buxton’s given me this address. The man who lives there is a Conservative town councillor called Victor Newton, and he’s a member of Mr Buxton’s lodge. Apparently that makes him trustworthy.’ He stared briefly at Marriott, a cynical expression on his face. ‘Tell Carter and Catto that he’s willing to accommodate them so they can keep watch from his front bedroom window.’

  ‘They’re on their way, sir,’ said Marriott, when he returned from giving Carter and Catto their instructions.

  Hardcastle took out his hunter, glanced at it and briefly rewound it. ‘Just time to have a word with the manager of Williams Deacon’s Bank about that there cheque book we found among Hannah Clarke’s possessions in Worthing, Marriott.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to the manager,’ said Hardcastle, addressing the young cashier in the Victoria Street branch of Williams Deacon’s Bank.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s a bit tied up at the moment, sir.’

  ‘Oh? Victim of a robbery, was he?’ asked Hardcastle jocularly.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘I’m a police officer and I wish to see him on urgent business, young man. Perhaps you can tell him that Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle is here.’

  ‘One moment, sir.’ The cashier slammed the cash drawer beneath the counter, took out the keys and disappeared through a door at the rear.

  ‘I wonder why he ain’t in the army, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, while they awaited the cashier’s return.

  ‘This way, gentlemen.’ The cashier opened a door at the end of the long mahogany counter and ushered the two detectives into the manager’s office.

  ‘Roland Peachey, gentlemen.’ The bank manager crossed the room and shook hands with each of the detectives.

  ‘Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of New Scotland Yard, Mr Peachey, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’

  ‘Take a seat, Inspector, and tell me how I may be of service. You wish to open an account, perhaps?’

  ‘I already have an account, Mr Peachey,’ said Hardcastle. ‘With Barclays.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Peachey, a slight frown settling on his forehead. ‘How can I be of assistance, then?’

  Marriott produced the cheque book that had been found among Hannah Clarke’s possessions in Worthing, and handed it to the manager.

  ‘I wondered if you could tell me anything about this cheque book, Mr Peachey,’ said Hardcastle.

  Peachey put on his spectacles, sucked through his teeth and closely examined the cheque book.

  ‘It’s certainly one of ours, Inspector, but I’m sure you’re aware that I can’t divulge any information about this account without a warrant issued under the Bankers’ Book Evidence Act of 1879.’

  ‘Yes, I did know that,’ said Hardcastle somewhat tersely. He did not much care for being lectured about the criminal law. ‘However, I’m dealing with the murder of a young woman in Worthing last Thursday, and I have reason to believe that she was the holder of the account to which this cheque book applies.’

  ‘Oh, that puts a rather different complexion on it,’ said Peachey. ‘What was the young woman’s name?’

  ‘Hannah Clarke, Kitty Gordon or Queenie Rogers, Mr Peachey,’ said Hardcastle, rather smugly. ‘She’s been known to use all three names. And maybe more.’

  ‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Peachey, suddenly very concerned. ‘I hope this doesn’t mean that some fraud has been perpetrated on the bank,’ he said, and pressed a bell push on his desk.

  ‘It’s a possibility, I suppose,’ said Hardcastle, with a measure of satisfaction.

  A slightly built woman entered the office. Her hair was dressed into a severe bun and she wore gold-rimmed spectacles with circular lenses.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Be so good as to find out to which of our clients this cheque book was issued, Miss Carmichael.’

  It took only five minutes before Miss Carmichael returned and handed the manager a slip of paper.

  ‘All I can tell you, Inspector, is that this cheque book was not issued in any one of the three names you gave me.’

  ‘Can you tell me who the account holder is, then, Mr Peachey?’

  ‘Not without the warrant I mentioned earlier, Inspector.’ Peachey placed the slip of paper in the centre of his blotter. ‘Excuse me one moment,’ he said, and walked from the room.

  Hardcastle leaned over the desk and read the name. ‘Well, I’ll be buggered!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘If there’s nothing else I can help you with, Inspector,’ said Peachey, returning to his office, ‘I am rather busy. Unless you have something to tell me.’

  ‘Not at present, Mr Peachey, thank you. I’ll let you know of anything I discover that concerns your bank. And I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention my interest to the account holder. Whoever that is.’

  ‘Of course not,’ murmured Peachey, and shook hands with the two policemen once again. ‘If you should wish to transfer your account here, I’m more than willing to accommodate you. Or you, Sergeant Marriott,’ he added.

  ‘Sergeants don’t need bank accounts,’ said Hardcastle. ‘They don’t get paid enough.’

  SIXTEEN

  The house occupied by Councillor Victor Newton was immediately opposite the one in which Hardcastle had taken an interest.

  The middle-aged man who answered the door in response to Gordon Carter’s knock was of medium height and somewhat rotund in build. He held a bundle of papers in one hand, had a pencil tucked under the arm of his spectacles and gazed quizzically at the two men on his doorstep.

  ‘Mr Newton?’

  ‘Councillor Newton actually,’ murmured the man. ‘You must be the police officers that Bert Buxton mentioned when he telephoned me.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m Detective Constable Carter and this is Detective Constable Catto.’

  As Newton shook hands with Carter and Catto, he tucked the third finger of his right hand into the palm. Carter recognized the sign, but was not of the craft, as Freemasons are wont to call their fraternity.

  ‘Come in, gentlemen. I understand that you have an interest in the house opposite.’

  ‘That’s correct, sir,’ said Carter. ‘If it’s not an inconvenience, we’d like to keep observation on it.’

  ‘Yes, Bert mentioned that,’ said Newton. ‘I’ve arranged a couple of chairs close to the window in the front bedroom. I think that would be a suitable place for you to keep watch.’

  ‘That’s very helpful, sir,’ said Catto. ‘As a matter of interest do you know anyt
hing about the people who live in that house?’

  ‘I’ve only ever seen a man going in and out of there, perhaps three times in all,’ said Newton, as he ushered the two detectives into his sitting room. ‘But I rather got the impression that no one lives there. Not all the time.’

  ‘Can you describe this man you saw, Councillor?’ asked Carter.

  ‘Difficult to say, really.’ Newton gave Carter’s question some thought. ‘I’d say he was a professional man by the way he was dressed, or perhaps a service officer in plain clothes.’

  ‘What age d’you think he was, sir?’ asked Catto.

  ‘I couldn’t really say, Constable. I only noticed him a couple of times, and then I only got a view of his back. At a guess anything between twenty and forty, I suppose. Not that that’s much help to you.’

  ‘It’s something for us to build on, sir,’ said Catto, not wishing to offend the councillor by saying that it was of no use whatsoever.

  ‘I’ll show you to the upstairs room, then,’ said Newton, ‘and I’ll get the maid to bring you chaps a cup of tea.’

  Carter and Catto settled themselves on the chairs in the window, satisfied that they had a good view of the house opposite. The maid, an attractive young girl, brought cups of tea and slices of cake. She seemed particularly taken with Catto.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Catto, smiling at the girl.

  ‘It’s Abigail, sir.’ The maid blushed.

  ‘You don’t have to call me “sir”,’ said Catto. ‘My name’s Henry and this is Gordon.’

  Abigail giggled and almost ran from the room.

  At lunchtime, she reappeared with a pile of sandwiches and two bottles of beer.

  ‘The master thought you might be hungry … Henry.’ Abigail added Catto’s Christian name diffidently and blushed again.

  ‘This could turn out to be quite an enjoyable stint, Gordon,’ said Catto, when Abigail had departed.

  ‘Depends on how long we’re likely to be stuck here,’ said Carter, no great lover of prolonged observation duty. ‘And what are we supposed to do if this bloke turns up?’