by Graham Ison
Craddock finished his whisky and immediately poured himself another. ‘Was there a suggestion that any of my other girls were engaging in prostitution, Inspector? Because if that is the case, I’ll sack the lot and start again. The employment market is awash with dancers – far more than there are vacancies for.’
‘My information only concerns Celine Fontenau. It’s up to you to find out whether there are more. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that it’s an offence to harbour prostitutes.’ As usual, Hardcastle was stretching the law a point or two.
‘I can assure you, Inspector, that I had no knowledge of this.’
‘How long has Marjorie Hibberd been with you, Major?’ asked Catto.
Craddock pursed his lips as he considered his answer. ‘Three or so years, I suppose, Sergeant. I took her on just after I opened here.’
‘Are you married, Major?’ asked Hardcastle suddenly.
‘No, the right girl never seemed to come along, Inspector.’ Craddock smiled, a little diffidently.
‘Very well,’ said Hardcastle, rising to his feet. ‘I may have to see you again, Major Craddock, but bear in mind what I said about employing prostitutes who masquerade as dancers. It’s not unheard of in my line of business.’
‘Come into the office, Catto,’ said Hardcastle, once the two detectives were back at the police station, ‘and tell me what you think of the galloping major. What you really think, I mean.’
‘As I said before, sir, he seems genuine enough to me. I reckon he was really shocked when you told him that Celine was on the game.’
Hardcastle patted his jacket pockets until he found his pipe, and then put it in his mouth without lighting it. ‘Maybe,’ he said eventually. ‘But he ain’t married, Catto, and it’s just possible that he was enjoying the fruits of his labours, so to speak. That’s why I asked him if he was wed.’
‘I don’t know about that, sir. I’m more interested in Marjorie Hibberd, the choreographer who’s supposed to keep an eye on these girls.’ Catto paused before tentatively adding, ‘It’s just possible that she’s actually acting as a madam to organize it all. Either with the major’s knowledge or without it.’
For a few seconds, Hardcastle stared at his subordinate in stunned silence. When Catto had previously served on A Division, it was the sort of look from the DDI that would have scared the living daylights out of him, but not any more.
‘I think you’re clutching at straws,’ Hardcastle said eventually. ‘But there might just be something in what you say. Have a look into her if you like, but don’t waste too much time on it.’ As Catto stood up to leave, he added, ‘You can take the rest of the day off and start tomorrow.’ He made it sound as though he was being extremely generous. Indeed, being an old-school detective, he firmly believed that he was being extremely generous.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Catto glanced at the clock over the door of Hardcastle’s office. It was twenty minutes past nine. Catto’s arrangement to meet his latest girlfriend had been stillborn, and she was probably now his ex-girlfriend.
SEVENTEEN
Catto’s first stop in his search for background information on the Twilight Cabaret Club’s choreographer was at Somerset House in the Strand, where records of births, deaths and marriages in England and Wales were kept. Major Craddock had suggested that Marjorie Hibberd was about fifty years of age and had referred to her as Mrs Hibberd. Not that that meant anything. One of the things that Catto had learned early in his career was that the cooks in big houses were always called ‘Mrs’ whether or not they were married. He had certainly come across several women who claimed to be married, but were not, and had never been able to fathom why they did so. Perhaps the same custom applied to choreographers.
Catto started his search with the marriage records in 1895, working on the basis that Mrs Hibberd might have been married when she was about eighteen, but he was lucky enough not to have to search too far. In the first quarter of 1897, he found an entry recording the marriage of a George Hibberd, aged twenty-five, a stage manager, to a Marjorie Bowen, aged twenty. The ceremony had taken place at St Bartholomew’s Church in Ann Street, Brighton, which caused Catto to wonder if George Hibberd could have been the stage manager at a Brighton theatre. It was also possible that Marjorie was a dancer there at some time and that was how they had met.
Knowing how old the Hibberds were at the time of their marriage, it was a comparatively easy task to discover their dates of birth. Armed with that information, Catto would now be able to make a thorough and accurate search of Metropolitan Police records.
It was a search of the Criminal Records Office, did Catto but know it at the time, that became the first step in solving the murders of Guy Stoner and Celine Walker, née Fontenau.
In 1922, the Brighton magistrates had convicted Marjorie Hibberd of keeping a bawdy house at Albert Road, Brighton, and had sentenced her to three months’ imprisonment. There were only a few details of the conviction and Catto determined that he would go to Brighton to find out more. Although he could have obtained those details by making a telephone call to the seaside town’s police, he had a feeling that it would profit him even more were he to make some other enquiries while in the area.
Brighton police station was housed in the same building as the headquarters of the Brighton Borough Police in a road called Bartholomews, very close to the seafront. Catto and Ritchie arrived in the popular seaside resort at about ten o’clock on the morning of Thursday the nineteenth of May, just over six weeks since the discovery of the dismembered bodies of Guy Stoner and Celine Walker in Ditton.
The elderly sergeant manning the front office of the police station surveyed the two smartly dressed men. ‘And how can I help you gentlemen on this fine sunny day?’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Catto of the Metropolitan Police and this is Detective Constable Ritchie, Sergeant.’
‘Ah!’ The sergeant brushed his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘Are you gents on holiday and seeking lodgings or on duty and seeking information?’ he asked.
‘Oh, we’re not on holiday,’ said Catto, ‘but information is what we’re after.’ He went on to explain his interest in Marjorie Hibberd, and that she might be able to assist in some way with enquiries into a double murder.
‘Murder, eh? Well, now, let’s see what we can do to assist you.’ The sergeant’s brow wrinkled in thought for a moment or two, and he brushed his moustache yet again. ‘Your best bet is to have a word with the sergeant in charge of records on the first floor, Sergeant Catto. I’ll get a PC to show you the way.’ He shouted for someone called Broderick and told him where to take the visiting officers from the ‘Mets’ as provincial officers were wont to call the London force.
‘I’m DS Charlie Caldicott,’ said the sergeant in charge of the records section, once Catto had introduced himself and Ritchie, and explained what he was looking for. Caldicott began by looking in a large book, followed this by searching through a card index system and finally took a manila folder from a filing cabinet. ‘Marjorie Hibberd, née Bowen, born second of February 1877. Married George Hibberd on the twentieth of March 1897 and he died twentieth of November 1918.’
‘What did he die of, Charlie?’
‘Caught the flu during the pandemic that year, Henry.’
‘What was his occupation at the time of his death?’
Caldicott glanced down at his docket. ‘Stage manager at the Brighton Hippodrome. It’s in Middle Street, only a short stride from here if you’re thinking of going there. According to this,’ he continued, tapping the docket, ‘Marjorie Bowen, as she was at the time of her marriage, was a dancer in the chorus at the theatre. I suppose that’s how they met.’
‘How did this bawdy house conviction come about, Sergeant?’ asked Ritchie.
‘It was five years ago. She was running a brothel in Albert Road. Information came from several of the neighbours …’ Caldicott paused. ‘It’s quite a well-to-do neighbourhood and they complained, not because they tho
ught it was a brothel, but because they thought it had been turned into a boarding house. They’re a snooty lot round there, and when they found out what had really been going on, they were probably overcome with the vapours.’ He chuckled at the thought. ‘Being suspicious coppers, we took an interest and, lo and behold, found she was running a very classy sort of knocking shop. There were about six girls working there and business was booming, especially in the holiday season. Marjorie got three months and never returned to Brighton after her release from Holloway nick.’
‘She’s in London now, as a choreographer at the Twilight Cabaret Club in Brewer Street.’
‘She’s probably good at it, too. From what I heard, she was a top-rate dancer. I’ll make a note of where she’s gone, just in case she decides to come back.’ Caldicott scribbled a few lines in the docket.
‘Just one other thing …’ Catto took out his pocketbook, flicked over a few pages and, using his pencil as a pointer, indicated one of the many names that he had recorded during the investigation. ‘Does that name mean anything to you, Charlie?’
Caldicott opened his manila folder again and spent a moment or two glancing through it. ‘Of course,’ he said eventually, looking up. ‘I thought it rang a bell. Two or three of the tarts who worked there mentioned he was inside, but when the house was raided, there was no sign of him. Nobody knew where he’d gone – or if they did, they weren’t saying.’
‘Is there a warrant out for him, Charlie?’
‘No, there wasn’t enough evidence to tie him into either the actual running of the place or living on the immoral earnings. One informant suggested that he owned the house, but there was nothing lodged with the borough council to indicate that he did. Marjorie Hibberd settled the rates bill every year and she remained tight-lipped. The rest of ’em didn’t know anything anyway. The only whisper our people picked up was that he was ex-army, but so were millions of others.’
‘Thanks for all that, Charlie. Ritchie and I’ll take a stroll up to the Hippodrome and see if they can tell us something that’ll put flesh on the bones, so to speak.’
‘We’re police officers,’ said Catto.
‘Fred Harris at your service, gents,’ said the ageing doorkeeper as he emerged from his cubicle near the stage door. He had wispy greying hair, a pair of spectacles held together with a piece of sticking plaster and a worn-out waistcoat with a watch chain suspended between the two lower pockets. He showed no sign of surprise at the arrival of the police. ‘Can’t say as how I’ve seen you before, but never mind. Couple of tickets for tonight’s performance, is it?’
‘No, thanks, Mr Harris,’ said Catto. ‘We’re from the Metropolitan Police and we’re investigating a murder.’
‘Pity. It’s a good show we’ve got on this week. The local bobbies usually pop in of a morning to pick up their free tickets, see. They comes in of a morning on account of ’em being early turn, so’s they’ve got the evening off, meaning as how they can see the show. It’s the manager’s idea. He likes to have a few bobbies in the audience in case there’s any trouble.’
‘Fascinating,’ murmured Catto. ‘I was wondering what you can tell me about George Hibberd.’
‘Ah, dear old George, God rest his soul, yes. Here, I’ll tell you what: come and have a seat in the auditorium. Be a bit more comfortable.’ Harris led the way along a dank corridor, through a fire door and into the area immediately in front of the orchestra pit. ‘Thems is the fauteuils,’ he said, pronouncing it ‘four tails’, and indicated the front row of seats. ‘Cost you half a crown to plonk your backside in one of them. Mind you, it was well worth it in the old days. We had ’em all here, you know, guv’nor. Oh, yes. There was Sarah Bernhardt, bless ’er, Lillie Langtry …’ He paused, a dreamy expression on his face. ‘She was the Prince of Wales’s bit of fluff, you know. Lovely girl was the Jersey Lily. Then there was Buster Keaton—’
‘Can we talk about George Hibberd, Fred? Much as I like hearing about the theatre, we do have to get back to London.’
‘Ah, yes, o’course. Now then … George. One of the best stage managers we ever had. I was stage-door keeper already when he arrived here in 1912, but the flu did for him a week after the end of the war. Mind you, a lot of good souls went the same way.’
Catto realized that Harris would need prompting. ‘I believe he married a dancer from here – a girl called Marjorie Bowen.’
‘Yes, you’re right, guv’nor. Blimey, you’ve got a good memory. She was a good-time girl, was our Marge. Started out as a trapeze artist. Got into a bit of trouble with the law later on, so I heard. Mind you, that’d come as no surprise to them of us what knew ’er. Always up for a bit of a tumble was our Marge – professional like, if you take my meaning – and if she weren’t available, she’d always fix the customer up with another of the chorus girls what was ready to turn a trick.’
‘Did the management know about this, Fred?’ asked Ritchie.
‘Gawd blimey, no, guv’nor.’ Harris was horrified at the thought. ‘There’d have been hell to pay if they’d found out. No, it was all kept very quiet and only a few of the girls was involved. Some of the usherettes would take a bob to pass a note to our Marge, and she’d do the rest. Much better for the stage-door johnnies than hanging around in the cold in the hope of taking a doxy out to dinner in exchange for a favour, as you might say.’ He afforded the two police officers an exaggerated wink.
‘And did George know what was going on?’
‘No, he couldn’t have.’ Harris scratched at his stubbled chin. ‘Marge’s bit of trouble was in 1922, and I’m pretty sure she never started on the game till after old George was pushing up daisies. She never had no income apart from dancing, see, and dancing don’t pay that much.’ It sounded as though Harris was attempting to excuse her behaviour.
‘I would have thought she was a bit too old to go on the game at that age,’ said Catto. ‘She’d have been about forty-five.’
‘Never! She can’t have been.’ Harris’s face expressed surprise. ‘Are you sure, guv’nor?’
‘I’ve seen her birth certificate,’ said Catto.
‘Well, you could knock me down with a feather, and that’s no error,’ said Harris. ‘That girl had the figure of a twenty-year-old, and the stamina to go with it. Er, so I’ve been told,’ he added hurriedly.
‘Were you one of her customers, then, Fred?’ asked Ritchie, more out of devilment than a need to know for evidential purposes.
‘Chance would have been a fine thing,’ said Harris, his face adopting a look of lost opportunities. ‘But I couldn’t have afforded her. Anyway, my heart condition couldn’t have coped with her, not from what I heard of her athletics. Like I said, she’d been a trapeze artist.’
Catto and Ritchie were back in London by three o’clock that afternoon, and immediately reported to the DDI.
‘What did you learn?’ Hardcastle filled his pipe and patted his pockets in an attempt to locate his box of Swan Vestas.
Catto explained, as succinctly as possible, what he and Ritchie had learned from the Brighton police and their conversation with Fred Harris, the stage-door keeper. The DDI was particularly interested in the man that DS Caldicott told them had vanished from the Albert Road brothel just before the police raided it.
‘Tipped off by some local copper, I suppose,’ said Hardcastle, ever the cynic. ‘I want you to take an interest in this man, Catto. Find out all about him, because I don’t think he’s been straight with us, despite what we’ve learned of him so far.’
‘D’you want him arrested, sir?’
‘I’ll leave that to your judgement, Catto. You know the rules. If arresting him is justified, well, then, arrest him.’ At last Hardcastle found his matches and lit his pipe.
Secretly, Catto was pleased to have been entrusted with further enquiries in connection with the murders of Guy Stoner and Celine Walker, but it was apparent that Hardcastle was losing interest in it. It was not very long ago that Hardcastle would have been at the
forefront of every aspect of a murder enquiry. But now, like Marriott, Catto considered the possibility that Hardcastle was past it and was contemplating retirement.
On Friday morning, Catto and Ritchie made their way to Vauxhall Bridge Road where the firm of Hudson and Peartree, makers of bakers’ ovens, had its offices.
A Corps of Commissionaires man stood at the main entrance. ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’
‘We’re police officers, and we’d like to speak to Mr Gerald Walker.’
‘I’m only here for the day, sir, the usual man having been taken ill. Consequently, I don’t know any of the people who work here. If you step inside, sir, there’s a lady receptionist who I’m sure will be able to assist you.’
There was a discreet sign on the receptionist’s desk informing the world that her name was Miss M. Marsh.
Catto explained who he was and told Miss Marsh who he wished to speak to. It was then that Catto received a surprise.
‘Gerald Walker? A clerk, you say?’ The receptionist, a grey-haired lady of about fifty, with glasses and a severe expression, glanced down at her staff list. After a moment or two of study, she looked up again. ‘I’m afraid there’s no one of that name listed. Do you know how long he’s worked here? If he’s a recent arrival – say, in the last week – he might not have been included in the list yet.’
‘Mr Walker informed us that he had worked here for twenty years. If it helps, he told us that his job was taking orders and that he had a separate telephone line that went direct to his desk for that purpose.’ Catto took out his pocketbook and pointed to the number that Walker had given the A Division detectives when they had interviewed him.
