by Graham Ison
The DDI did not sound in the least surprised when he learned of the vicar’s views of his late nephew, Guy Stoner. ‘I wonder why he didn’t mention it when you and I went to see him, Marriott.’
‘Probably because he hoped Guy was still alive, sir, and would rather not have mentioned what he believed to be character defects. You know what clergymen are like about adultery.’
‘Only half of them,’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘The other half are doing it.’
‘He mentioned that Guy Stoner had once met a girl by the name of Lady Lavinia Quilter, sir,’ said Catto, ‘but the vicar didn’t know whether they became close.’
‘From what Sergeant Marriott was saying, it sounds as though he had a lot of girlfriends, Catto.’
‘Is it possible that this is the woman that Holroyd was referring to, sir – the woman with the Triumph Super Seven motor car?’
‘You’re forgetting something, Catto. Gerald Walker has already identified the remains as those of his wife Celine. And Holroyd said he’d never met the girl.’
‘Walker did faint at the sight of the dead body, sir,’ Marriott reminded Hardcastle. ‘I think he would have said anything just to get out of that room and leave the smell of it behind. And if you think about it, Walker only gave the face of the female victim a cursory glance.’
‘Perhaps Stoner had so many girlfriends that he got them mixed up, sir. It must’ve been very difficult for him.’ Catto chuckled at the thought.
‘This double murder is no laughing matter, Catto,’ said Hardcastle sharply. ‘But in order to clear up your doubts, I suggest you follow it up. According to Holroyd, the model of motor car this woman possessed was new this year. It shouldn’t be too difficult for you to trace the owner, and then you can satisfy yourself that she’s still alive. Don’t forget, however, that Holroyd is a liar and a thief. He could have made the whole thing up.’
Detective Sergeant Henry Catto was an officer who did not believe in physical exertion if it could possibly be avoided, but that did not make him a bad detective. On the contrary, it was indicative of an officer who used his time economically and was therefore more productive. Consequently, he dismissed, as too time-consuming, the idea of contacting the car’s manufacturers to get a list of purchasers.
Instead, his first act, in complying with Hardcastle’s direction, was to consult Burke’s Peerage, which listed the aristocracy, their forebears, their spouses and offspring. It did not take him long to discover that Lady Lavinia Quilter was the eldest daughter of the Earl of Wilmslow. The publication also revealed that the earl’s country seat was at Durlston Park, Kings Worthy, just outside Winchester in Hampshire.
Enquiries of the General Post Office were disappointing. The earl did not have a telephone at his place in Kings Worthy, nor did he have a telephone in the London area which would have indicated that he had a residence there, too.
There was no alternative, therefore, but for Catto to journey to Kings Worthy.
Following an uncomfortable train ride from Waterloo that took nearly an hour and a half, Catto emerged from Winchester railway station only to find it was pouring with rain. Unlike Hardcastle, however, Catto never carried an umbrella.
His inclination was to find the police station which he understood from the Police & Constabulary Almanac to be in the Guildhall in Colebrook Street. He was, however, saved from what promised to be a rather wet journey when he spotted a constable of the Winchester City Police sheltering under the overhang at the front of the railway station.
‘Excuse me, can you tell me how I can get to Kings Worthy. I’m trying to find Lord Wilmslow’s place.’
‘Are you now?’ The constable, a man at least six feet and six inches tall, stuck his thumbs into his leather belt and looked down at Catto. ‘And why would a young man like you want to go and see His Lordship? Are you one of them reporters?’
‘No, I’m Detective Sergeant Catto of the Metropolitan Police.’
‘Is that a fact?’ enquired the policeman sarcastically. ‘And how do I know that?’
‘Will this do?’ Catto produced his warrant card.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed the policeman and brushed at his heavy moustache as he examined the document. ‘Begging your pardon, Sergeant, but you can’t be too careful.’
‘That’s all right, cully. But why should you think I was a reporter?’
‘We’ve had a few reporters sniffing about, most of ’em from up London, all wanting to know where His Lordship lived. O’course, we don’t tell ’em nothing.’
‘Did they say what they wanted, these newspaper people?’
‘No, they’d never let on. Muttered something about it being confidential, which usually means they’re hoping for a scoop. What’s more, we haven’t heard a dicky bird down at headquarters.’ The constable paused and brushed his moustache again. ‘Mind you, there was some whisper about His Lordship’s daughter having gone missing, but I don’t know if there was anything in it. If you hear anything about it that might be helpful to us, Sergeant, I know the inspector would be very grateful.’
‘Yes, but that rather depends upon me finding out how to get to this place,’ said Catto, with a wry grin.
‘Bless me, o’course it does, Sergeant. Here’s me chatting away and I quite forgot what you asked me in the first place. It’s about two miles from here, is Kings Worthy, and the place you want is called Durlston Park. I reckon you could walk it in about twenty minutes.’
‘Good grief, I’m not walking,’ said Catto. ‘I’ll get one of those taxis to take me.’ He waved a hand at the rank where four or five cabs were waiting.
‘You London policemen do all right, I must say, Sergeant,’ exclaimed the constable, running a hand around his chin. ‘Will your force pay for that, then?’
‘Definitely,’ said Catto.
Durlston Park was a huge Georgian house, set in rolling grounds with an ornamental garden designed by Capability Brown. It seemed to take ages to travel from the open gates to the house, such was the length of the drive.
Catto dismissed the taxi and ascended the steps leading to the front door. He tugged at the metal bell pull but heard no corresponding sound from within. Guessing that there would be some indication of his arrival in the servants’ hall, he viewed the immaculate garden while waiting. He turned as the front door was opened, creaking on its hinges.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said the butler, as he cast a critical eye over the caller.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Catto of the Metropolitan Police. Is it possible to speak to His Lordship?’
‘Thank God! At last,’ said the butler, with a rare breach of his self-imposed professional reserve. ‘If you care to come in, I’ll tell His Lordship that you’re here.’ It was a statement that made a refreshing change from the somewhat fatuous pretence of enquiring if the master of the house was at home.
It was less than a minute before the butler returned and conducted Catto into the drawing room.
‘Detective Sergeant Catto, my lord.’
Catto guessed that the Earl of Wilmslow was about fifty years of age. The agility with which he leapt from his chair and sped across the room to shake hands testified to his physical fitness.
‘Come and sit down, m’boy.’ Wilmslow glanced at his butler. ‘Bring in some whisky, Patterson. I’m sure this officer could do with some fortification on a miserable day like today.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
‘Well, Catto, found my daughter, have you?’
‘I think there must be some confusion, Lord Wilmslow. I came here today to see if you could tell me where I could find her. I presume we’re both talking about Lady Lavinia Quilter.’
Further conversation was briefly stemmed by the arrival of the butler bearing a decanter of whisky, tumblers and water on a salver. He had arrived so quickly that Catto assumed he had prepared the tray of Scotch in readiness.
‘Oh, put it over there, Patterson.’ Wilmslow waved a hand in the general direction of a sofa table, befo
re returning his attention to Catto. ‘Now then, let me see. Ah, yes. I spoke to some fellow in the Winchester City Police about my daughter going missing. Seemed to be an important sort of chap, if the amount of silver braid on his uniform was anything to go by, don’t you know. God knows what he did about it, because I never heard another peep out of the fellow. When Patterson told me you’d turned up, I naturally thought he’d done the sensible thing and called in Scotland Yard to do something about finding the girl.’
‘When did Lady Lavinia go missing, sir?’ asked Catto, once Patterson had served him and the earl with a tumbler of whisky each and left the room.
‘Week beginning March the seventh,’ said Wilmslow promptly, and took a sip of his whisky.
That was the week that ended with the fire at Ditton Garage, resulting in police finding the body parts that had been identified as those of Guy Stoner and Celine Walker. But Catto refrained from remarking on the fact, since the earl’s comments seemed to throw doubt on Gerald Walker’s identification of the body as that of his wife. Catto tended to agree with Marriott that Walker was so overcome at probably his first sight ever of a dead body that he would have said anything just to escape from the mortuary.
‘When you say she went missing, sir, d’you mean that she didn’t tell you or anyone else where she was going?’
‘Exactly. Mind you, Catto, it wasn’t the first time she’d gone off somewhere. Lavinia’s become something of a free spirit since her mother died three years ago. Never takes a damned bit of notice of me. Just smiles sweetly and carries on as if I hadn’t said a blasted word, don’t you know. I even bought her a car, but it didn’t make any difference. Yes, bit of a free spirit is Lavinia.’
‘Did she have any particular friends, sir?’ Catto was finding it difficult to extract any meaningful information from the earl.
‘She was running around with some ex-army captain for a while, I believe. She brought him to see me once. He was only a temporary wartime officer, mind you,’ said Wilmslow, in a vaguely disparaging sort of way. ‘She said something about wanting to marry him at one stage, but then she found out that his only living relative was some pestilential priest living in Norfolk who would probably insist on them having a church do. Well, Lavinia was dead against that sort of thing. I think she wanted to bunk off and get married on some tropical beach.’ He shook his head. ‘I sometimes wondered, Catto, if she had a screw loose. I blame the bloody war, you know – it’s changed everything.’
‘D’you happen to know the name of this man, this ex-army captain, sir?’
The earl weighed up the question for a moment or two before replying. ‘Lavinia said he was called Stoner,’ he said eventually. ‘Guy Stoner. Seemed to have plenty of money. Took the girl to nightclubs in the West End, don’t you know. All the sort of loose behaviour the younger generation gets up to these days. Dancing the night away and all that sort of palaver.’
‘Did this Guy Stoner have a moustache by any chance, sir?’
‘Yes, he did. Damned great bushy thing.’
That interested Catto greatly and, on reflection, he wondered why he had asked that question, because it merely served to complicate the investigation to a greater extent. According to the Reverend Percy Stoner, his nephew did not have a moustache. But Rupert Holroyd most certainly did. And, to quote the earl, it was indeed a ‘damned great bushy thing’.
Catto was on the point of taking his leave when the door of the drawing room opened and a woman entered – he guessed she was about thirty-five years of age – elegantly attired in a green dress that just covered her knees. She wore a long string of beads, and her hair was bobbed in what was known as an Eton crop.
‘Hello, love,’ she said, addressing the earl in coarse tones. ‘Thought I ’eard voices.’
‘Ah, Catto, this is my wife,’ said the earl.
Catto stood up and took the woman’s proffered hand. ‘How d’you do, Lady Wilmslow?’
‘I’m doin’ all right, thanks, love, but do call me Dolly. Everyone does.’ She held on to Catto’s hand for a little longer than necessary, before turning to the earl. ‘Where did you find this ’andsome young blade, Monty?’
‘He’s a police officer, Dolly,’ said Wilmslow, smiling. ‘He’s here making enquiries about Lavinia.’ It was apparent that Wilmslow felt he owed Catto an explanation. ‘The countess is my second wife, Catto. She was in a revue at the Chiswick Empire when I found her a year ago. She gave a very good rendition of “I Wish I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate”, didn’t you, Dolly?’
‘Yeah,’ said the countess, and laughed loudly. ‘I ain’t bad when I get goin’, even though I says it meself.’
Catto was aware that, in the enlightened nineteen twenties, members of the aristocracy were known occasionally to marry actresses and others in ‘the profession’, something that had been going on since before the turn of the century. But the new Lady Wilmslow, although possessed of a good figure, needed to work on her elocution. There again, he thought, perhaps it was one of the characteristics that had attracted the earl in the first place.
‘I’ll make some enquiries about Lady Lavinia, sir,’ said Catto, ‘and inform you of any developments. I understand that you’re not connected to the telephone.’
‘Certainly not. Wouldn’t have one of the damned things in the house.’ Wilmslow stood up and shook hands. ‘Thank you, Catto, and I look forward to hearing from you. By the way, how did you get here?’
‘Train from London, sir, and cab from Winchester station.’
Wilmslow tugged at the bell pull, and when Patterson appeared, he said, ‘Get Tuppen to take Mr Catto to Winchester station, Patterson.’
‘Very good, my lord.’
‘Cheerio, love,’ exclaimed Lady Wilmslow. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ she added, and emitted a ribald laugh. ‘That ought to give you plenty of leeway.’
When Catto alighted from the Earl of Wilmslow’s Rolls-Royce at the railway station, he spotted the Winchester City policeman, who had just completed a circuit of his beat and had finished up back at the railway station.
The policeman shook his head and muttered a few words about the privileged officers of the Metropolitan Police.
Catto walked across to the constable. ‘How do I get to your headquarters, cully?’ he asked. ‘I think I might have a bit of information for your chief.’
‘It’s in the Guildhall in Colebrook Street, Sergeant. Inspector Culkin is the officer on duty.’
‘How far is that?’
‘Walking distance? Just under a mile.’ The constable gave directions.
‘I’d get lost in no time at all,’ said Catto dismissively, ‘apart from which I’m a detective. I gave up walking when I handed in my uniform. I’ll take a cab. Thanks, cully.’ He strode across to the cab rank and hired a taxi.
The Winchester policeman shook his head. ‘I think I joined the wrong police force,’ he said, to the astonishment of a passing pedestrian who thought the constable was addressing him.
The sergeant manning the front office at police headquarters was probably nearing retirement age. He was overweight – his straining leather belt testifying to that – and his double chin seemed to spread over the stiff collar of his serge tunic. His moustache was even more luxuriant than that of the constable whom Catto had met at the railway station.
‘Yes, young man? What can I do for you?’
‘I’d like to speak to Inspector Culkin, Sergeant.’
‘Would you now?’ The sergeant appeared to puff himself up, as though this physical action would give weight to his authority. ‘Well, my lad, you can’t just walk into this here police headquarters like you was someone important and demand to see the inspector.’ The station sergeant turned away as though dismissing the caller and his request.
‘Let’s get one thing straight, cully,’ snapped Catto, irritated by what he saw as a country bumpkin dressed up as a policeman. ‘I’m not “your lad”.’
‘Is that a fact?’ The Win
chester sergeant turned back again as Catto began to speak, doubtless annoyed by the sharpness of his voice, and fully prepared to make an arrest for causing a disturbance in a police station.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Catto of the Metropolitan Police,’ Catto continued, ‘and I’m involved in the investigation of a couple of murders.’ He laid his warrant card on the counter. ‘Either I see the inspector or I return to Scotland Yard and explain to my chief that the Winchester City Police weren’t interested in what I had to say.’
‘Hang on a mo, Sarge, I’ll get the inspector.’ Having puffed himself up, the sergeant now appeared thoroughly to have deflated, and promptly disappeared into the depths of the headquarters.
Catto picked up his warrant card and grinned at a constable who, having witnessed an unprecedented exchange between two sergeants, was standing at the back of the room with a bemused expression on his face.
‘Detective Sergeant Catto?’ The inspector who appeared proved to be possessed of a superior attitude. A slender man, at least by comparison with his sergeant, he seemed to be a few years younger, and had a neatly trimmed moustache. ‘My name’s Inspector Culkin. Come into my office.’ He lifted the flap that allowed access to the administrative part of the headquarters and led the way down a dank corridor.
‘I understand from the station sergeant that you may have some information for us, Sergeant Catto,’ said Culkin, as the two of them sat down.
‘Yes, sir. I saw the Earl of Wilmslow this morning in an attempt to trace his daughter.’
‘Did you now? And did you advise the head constable of this force that you were making enquiries in our force area?’ Culkin, although apparently more amenable than the station sergeant, was clearly jealous of his police district. In common with officers of smaller forces, there was always an element of resentment when officers of the much larger Metropolitan Police arrived in their bailiwick intent on finding things out.
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, you should have done, Sergeant. It’s common courtesy, apart from the fact that it may result in subsequent enquiries that we can’t deal with because we didn’t know you were here. Anyway, how did you know where the earl lived?’
