Hardcastle's Quartet

by Graham Ison

  Bradley waved a hand of dismissal. ‘It’s of no great consequence, Inspector. I think we have more than enough here to hang Henson,’ he said, laying a hand on Hardcastle’s report. ‘It seems obvious from the enquiries you made in Worthing, and the statements you obtained, that Henson also murdered the woman known variously as Hannah Clarke, Kitty Gordon and Queenie Rogers. What motive do you attribute to that?’

  But it was Marriott who replied. ‘Again the bank statements of Henson, sir. They show that he paid sums of money to Queenie Rogers that were roughly equal to a quarter of the sums he acquired from the other three murdered women. A handwriting expert has examined the unfinished letter found at Whilber Street, and he will testify that in his expert opinion it was written by Rogers. Reading between the lines, it seems to indicate that she was unhappy with her share of the proceeds and was threatening to expose him. And she stole his cheque book, presumably with a view to forgery.’

  ‘That seems logical, Sergeant Marriott,’ said Bradley, ‘but in doing so she risked exposing her own part in this conspiracy. I think it’s a safe deduction that she also made that threat verbally, and in a sense signed her own death warrant.’

  ‘If Rogers hadn’t stolen Henson’s cheque book, sir, we wouldn’t have found him,’ said Hardcastle, and then hurriedly added, ‘Well, not so soon anyway.’

  The conference lasted for almost three hours, Dryden Bradley checking and double-checking every item in Hardcastle’s report.

  At one o’clock, he stood up and stretched. ‘All we have to do now, Inspector, is to prepare for the preliminary hearing before the Bow Street magistrate, and oversee the wearisome task of depositions.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Perhaps you gentlemen will allow me to buy you lunch at the Cheshire Cheese.’

  ‘That’s most kind of you, sir,’ said Hardcastle.

  October was a good month. British troops had captured Cambrai, and there were reports that the civilian population of Germany was starving and ill disposed to continue a war they already saw as lost. Rumours also abounded that the Kaiser’s government had accepted President Wilson’s ‘Fourteen Points’ as a basis for peace. But those hopes were dashed when the Germans began prevaricating, forcing Wilson to declare that peace terms would not be discussed without an unconditional German surrender.

  The weather was dull and unsettled, there was very little sun and the temperature consistently fell short of fifty degrees Fahrenheit. And, as it had done for most of the month, it was raining when on Monday the fourteenth of October, over three months after his arrest, Rollo Henson’s trial opened at the Sussex Assizes at Lewes.

  The venue of the trial surprised Hardcastle, for he had assumed that it would be held at the Old Bailey. But he was not to learn the reason until the day it began.

  As Dryden Bradley had predicted, the Solicitor-General was otherwise engaged and Cedric Kitchen KC was appearing for the Crown.

  Kitchen swiftly crossed the vast echoing hall with his gown flowing and his wig in his hand. He was well built and at least six foot tall, with a shock of auburn hair, and bushy eyebrows and sideburns. He was followed by the bearded Bradley, juggling a substantial brief under one arm and a law book in his hand.

  ‘M’dear Hardcastle,’ said Kitchen, ‘how good to see you again. As Hewart is in the Prize Court, I’m for the Crown in this case. You’ve met Bradley, my junior, of course.’ Kitchen shook hands with the DDI and then with Marriott. ‘How d’you do, m’dear fellow,’ he murmured.

  ‘Excuse me not shaking hands, Inspector,’ said Bradley, ‘but as you can see my leader’s using me as a packhorse.’

  Kitchen sank on to one of the benches. Waiting until Hardcastle and Marriott had sat down beside him, he said, ‘I think we’ve got this fellow Henson buttoned up, eh?’

  ‘I’d like to think so, sir,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘There’s some young fellow called Burgess from Worthing sculling about here somewhere, along with a pretty girl called Dorothy Craig and a rather stuffy-looking chap called Morrison who runs a cafe of some sort on Worthing seafront. Apparently they’re witnesses in this case, but then you’d know that.’

  ‘That’s correct, sir,’ said Hardcastle, and explained the parts Burgess, Dorothy Craig and Morrison had played in the investigation.

  ‘Yes, of course; thought I’d seen their names somewhere in me brief. He sounds a useful chap, this Sergeant Burgess. Stand up all right in the box, will he?’

  ‘I have every confidence, sir,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Good, good. By the bye, we’ve only indicted Henson with the murder of Hannah Clarke. That’s why we’re here and not at the Bailey. Incidentally, she’ll be referred to as Queenie Rogers throughout the trial. Don’t want to confuse the jury, eh what?’

  ‘Why only her, sir?’ Hardcastle could not conceal his surprise.

  ‘It’s probably the easiest to prove, and it’s a safety net, m’dear fellow,’ said Kitchen. ‘If he’s found not guilty on that one – although I wouldn’t bet on his chances – we’ll go ahead with Cheney and the rest, one after another, until we get a conviction, eh what? If he goes down on Rogers, we’ll take the others into consideration, if he’s prepared to stand for them. After all they can only hang the bugger once, eh what?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, we’d better be getting inside. Don’t want to upset His Lordship before we’ve even started, eh what?’ Planting his wig untidily on his head, he led the way into court.

  Hardcastle was always impressed by assize courtrooms with the huge Royal Arms behind the judge’s seat, and had often wondered what effect the awesome surroundings had upon prisoners indicted with murder. And quite a few such murderers had stood in the court’s high dock.

  The red-robed judge appeared, bowed to counsel and took his seat.

  Then came the customary cry from a court official that would start the proceedings: ‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All persons having business before this court of oyer and terminer and general gaol delivery pray draw near.’

  ‘Put up the prisoner,’ said the judge.

  Two prison warders escorted the tall, handsome figure of Rollo Henson into the dock. Despite having been kept in custody for three months, his hair was still of a fashionable length and well cared for. Hardcastle assumed that he had paid an incarcerated barber to care for his appearance.

  ‘Cedric Kitchen for the Crown, My Lord,’ said Kitchen, rising to his feet.

  ‘Who appears for the defendant, Mr Kitchen?’ The judge made a little parody of peering at counsel’s benches as if seeking the defence counsel.

  ‘I understand that he wishes to defend himself, My Lord.’

  ‘Does he indeed.’ The judge raised his eyes to the prisoner. ‘Is this correct, Henson?’

  ‘It is, My Lord,’ said Henson.

  ‘I would remind you of the old adage, Henson, that a lawyer who defends himself has a fool for a client.’

  ‘Nevertheless, My Lord, I wish to defend myself.’ Henson returned the judge’s gaze with the air of defiance of a man convinced of an acquittal.

  ‘I will not tolerate it. You are facing an indictment for murder, and you will appoint counsel.’ The judge took out his watch and consulted it. ‘I shall adjourn until two o’clock, by which time I expect to see counsel here briefed to defend you.’

  ‘Damn that man Henson,’ exclaimed Kitchen, as he marched out of the courtroom.

  When the court reconvened at two o’clock a barrister in a silk gown rose.

  ‘Arthur Gould for the defence, My Lord.’

  ‘Are you familiar with the case, Mr Gould?’

  ‘Hardly, My Lord,’ said Gould, in apologetic tones. ‘I have only spent an hour with my client.’

  ‘In that case, I shall adjourn until Wednesday the sixteenth at ten o’clock in the forenoon.’ The judge rose, bowed to counsel and swept angrily from the court.

  ‘That ain’t pleased His Lordship, Inspector,’ confided Kitchen.

  ‘D’you know of Mr Gould, sir?’ asked Hardcastle.


  ‘Arthur Gould KC is a tolerably able counsel on the south-eastern circuit with chambers here in Lewes, Hardcastle. He’ll do his best for Henson. Not that it will do that scallywag much good, eh what?’

  In accordance with the judge’s direction the court reconvened two days later.

  The clerk shuffled his papers and looked up.

  ‘Rollo Henson, you are charged in that on or about Thursday the twentieth of June in the year of Our Lord one thousand, nine hundred and eighteen in the Borough of Worthing in the County of West Sussex you did murder a woman known variously as Hannah Clarke, Kitty Gordon and Queenie Rogers, against the peace. How say you upon this indictment?’

  ‘Not guilty, My Lord,’ said Henson in a strong voice that echoed around the courtroom.

  ‘Bring in the jury,’ said the judge.

  It was at that point that Hardcastle and the other witnesses were obliged to leave the court.

  It was not until the afternoon that Hardcastle was called to give evidence. Cedric Kitchen took him through all the details of his investigation, an examination that took a total of three hours and ran over to the following day. Arthur Gould spent a further thirty minutes in cross-examination.

  Over the ensuing weeks witness followed witness.

  With an economy of words, Doctor Bernard Spilsbury described in clinical detail the cause of death of the woman whom he now knew to be Queenie Rogers. Finally, just to make sure that there should be no doubt in the jury’s mind, he repeated that she had been strangled and expressed the opinion there was no other way in which her death could have been caused.

  Sergeant Burgess spoke confidently when describing how Queenie Rogers’ clothing had been found on Worthing pier, and assured counsel that the pier-master’s assistant was available to give evidence if required. In fact Burgess gave the appearance of thoroughly enjoying his first sortie into the big world of an assize court. It was a performance that led Kitchen later to comment that the young Worthing sergeant had ‘come up to snuff’.

  Dorothy Craig refused to be shaken when identifying Rollo Henson as the man to whom she had sold the bathing suit in which the body of Queenie Rogers had been found. She was adamant that Henson was the man, and repeated what she had told the detectives: that it was the only bathing dress of that style that the shop had sold, and was the only time she had ever sold a lady’s bathing dress to a man, and that was why she was so certain.

  Detective Inspector Charles Stockley Collins testified that Henson’s fingerprints, taken after his arrest, matched those found at Disraeli Road, an address also frequented by Queenie Rogers. He went on to give the usual supporting statistic that the likelihood of two different person’s fingerprints being identical was in the region of sixty-four thousand million to one, a figure that appeared to impress the jurymen.

  Roland Peachey, the manager of Williams Deacon’s Bank, gave details of the payments in and out of Henson’s account, laying particular emphasis on the payments made to Queenie Rogers.

  Slowly but surely the damning evidence against Henson stacked up, but despite that, such was his arrogance, he insisted on giving evidence on his own behalf, against his counsel’s advice. It was a pathetic performance.

  Arthur Gould rose to examine his witness. ‘Mr Henson, do you admit being on Worthing pier during the late evening of the twentieth of June?’

  ‘I do, sir.’ Henson answered the question in a firm voice.

  ‘Please tell My Lord and the jury why you were there.’

  ‘I had met my fiancée, Miss Rogers, earlier in the evening and we had gone for supper together. We then went for a stroll along the pier. It was a fine evening and very warm, so I suggested that we went for a swim. Queenie demurred, however, saying that she had no costume, but I’d bought one for her as a surprise.’

  ‘Where did this conversation occur?’ asked Gould.

  ‘On the pier, sir.’

  ‘Yes, go on.’

  ‘By then we were at the far end of the pier. There was no one about and Queenie changed quickly into the bathing dress and put her clothes into a nearby locker.’

  ‘It’s been suggested by the prosecution that it was you who undressed Miss Rogers and you who put the bathing dress on her.’

  Henson smiled. ‘I am not competent to deal with the complexities of a lady’s apparel, sir.’

  ‘Quite so. Did you intend to go for a swim yourself?’

  ‘Of course. I wasn’t going to let Queenie go in on her own. I knew she was a competent swimmer and she proved it when she dived off the pier.’ Henson’s face took on an immeasurably sad expression. ‘I saw her enter the water, but she didn’t surface. I waited for some time, but I could see no sign of her. At first I thought she might’ve been swimming underwater towards the beach. I didn’t know what to do. I ran off the pier and made for the beach, but I couldn’t see her anywhere. I imagined that she must’ve hit her head on some projection beneath the water and had been knocked unconscious. I knew then that she must’ve drowned.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Henson. Please wait there. Counsel for the Crown may wish to ask you some questions.’

  Cedric Kitchen rose to cross-examine. There was none of the theatrics practised by so many barristers, like adjusting their gown or fiddling with their spectacles. Kitchen’s questions were incisive and devastating.

  ‘When you realized that Miss Rogers was missing, did you make any attempt to call someone, the police for example?’

  ‘I didn’t see the point, sir,’ said Henson lamely.

  ‘What did you do, then, Henson?’

  ‘I returned to my hotel – Warne’s in Worthing – and left for London the next day.’

  ‘Let me make sure I’ve got this right. You thought your fiancée had just drowned, but you did nothing. You just went home.’ Kitchen paused to emphasize that telling observation by directing his gaze at the jury. Returning his attention to Henson, he continued. ‘You said in your evidence-in-chief that you suggested to Miss Rogers that both of you should go for a swim.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you have your own swimsuit with you? Or a towel perhaps?’ asked Kitchen airily.

  ‘No, sir. It was a spur of the moment idea.’

  ‘A spur of the moment idea, eh?’ Kitchen savoured the phrase. ‘Although you had had the foresight to purchase a bathing costume for Miss Rogers, but not one for yourself.’ He did not wait for a reply. ‘You described Queenie Rogers as your fiancée, did you not?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But you are married already, are you not? To a Lydia Henson, and you live with her at Manwood Road, Brockley, London.’

  ‘Yes, but we’re getting divorced.’

  ‘Are you really? Does Mrs Henson know about this proposed divorce?’ asked Kitchen sarcastically, and once again looked meaningfully at the jury. Waiting until the subdued tittering had subsided, and in the absence of a reply he knew would not be forthcoming, he continued. ‘You said that Miss Rogers was a competent swimmer, did you not?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Surely then, she would have appreciated the dangers of diving off a pier in the dark. I suggest to you that she would she have objected and proposed that, if she were to swim at all, it would have been safer to enter the water from the beach.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Henson reluctantly, ‘but there were too many people about, and she couldn’t have changed into her bathing dress on the beach.’

  ‘But there are a number of bathing machines on Worthing beach, aren’t there?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but I think they were closed. It was late.’

  ‘Even so, one presumes that Miss Rogers was not somehow going to clamber back on to the pier’s end from the sea, was she?’ Kitchen managed to lard that question with an element of sarcasm.

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘No, I shouldn’t imagine so.’ Kitchen paused to peruse his notes again. ‘So, she would have emerged from the water on to the beach. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,�
� said Henson.

  ‘And walked all the way from there back to the end of the pier – a distance of some nine hundred and sixty feet – in her bathing dress – in order to recover her clothing?’

  ‘I suppose, sir,’ said Henson lamely, suddenly realizing that he had not given sufficient thought to his murderous plan.

  ‘But you knew perfectly well that she would not emerge and that, therefore, the problem would not arise. I put it to you, Henson, that you chose the pier because there was no one about at that hour. No one who would have seen you strangling Miss Rogers, undressing her and attiring her in the bathing suit you had purchased for her earlier that day, and throwing her lifeless body into the sea.’

  ‘I did not, sir,’ protested Henson in anguished tones. ‘I loved her. I wouldn’t have harmed a hair of her head.’

  ‘So you say, Henson, so you say. You claimed that you could not have undressed Miss Rogers because of the complexities of a lady’s apparel. But you have heard evidence that the clothing found in the lifebelt locker consisted only of a light summer frock, a chemise, a pair of bloomers, and a pair of art silk stockings. Nothing too complex about that, I’d’ve thought. What say you to that?’

  ‘I can only protest my innocence, sir.’

  Kitchen turned to the judge. ‘I have no further questions for the accused, My Lord.’

  TWENTY

  Three weeks later, the judge began his lengthy summing up, and eventually the jury was sent out to consider its verdict.

  ‘D’you think he’ll be found guilty, sir?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘British juries are fickle bodies, m’dear Hardcastle,’ said Kitchen, ‘but if he ain’t, I’ll eat me damned wig. Can’t say fairer than that, eh what?’

  The jury’s deliberations took the rest of that day and half the next, on one occasion during which the foreman sought directions from the judge. But finally the members of the jury all agreed and filed back into the courtroom.