Hardcastle's Obsession (12 page)

‘Thank you, Sir Royston,’ said Hardcastle, somewhat surprised at the man’s readiness to provide the information. ‘That’ll be all. You can go.’

Naylor stood up, and some of his original hostility returned. ‘I assume that you have no evidence to support those trumped-up charges, Inspector, and I have to warn you that I am seriously considering a civil action for wrongful arrest and unlawful imprisonment.’

‘That’s your privilege, Sir Royston,’ said Hardcastle, unconcerned at a threat that had been levelled against him many times before. ‘But in order to defend such a civil action my officers will be obliged to give evidence that they saw you fighting with a number of prostitutes. The Commissioner is always keen to deny any suggestion that his officers acted in any way incorrectly, and he would strongly defend such an action.’

Without another word, Sir Royston Naylor snatched up his silk hat and cane, left the room and slammed the door.

‘I intend to check that story of his, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We’ll have to make a few enquiries at this here Buckinghamshire estate to see if this alibi of his holds water. Now fetch Sarah Cotton in here. She’s in the matron’s office.’

‘What the ’ell ’ave I bin arrested for?’ demanded Sarah the moment Marriott escorted her into the interview room.

‘Sit down, Cotton,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You’ve been arrested for making an affray, and soliciting prostitution.’

‘That fight wasn’t nothing to do with me,’ protested Sarah. ‘It was them other girls what suddenly decided to set about poor old Charles. I dunno what they started it for.’

‘Charles?’ Hardcastle smiled. ‘I think you mean Sir Royston Naylor, don’t you?’

Sarah shrugged. ‘He prefers not to use his real name.’ Suddenly all pretence at a cockney accent had vanished, and Sarah spoke in well-educated modular tones.

‘And while we’re on the subject of assumed names,’ continued Hardcastle, ‘I gather that you’re really Lady Sarah Millard.’

Sarah blushed scarlet and placed a hand on her daringly exposed cleavage. ‘How on earth did you discover that?’ she blurted out.

‘Quite simply, Lady Sarah,’ said Hardcastle, deliberately using the woman’s title. ‘I had you followed by one of my best officers who then checked the voters’ register.’ He did not mention that he had had other enquiries made into the woman’s background. His next question, however, revealed that he knew more about her. ‘As a matter of interest, what does Colonel Millard think of your shenanigans?’

Sarah blushed and looked down at the rough wooden table that separated her from Hardcastle. ‘He doesn’t know,’ she said softly.

‘I presume he’s fighting for King and Country somewhere, is he?’ Hardcastle’s tone of voice implied what he thought of women who prostituted themselves, literally, while their husbands were away at the war.

‘Yes, he’s in Flanders somewhere. I don’t know exactly where.’ Lady Sarah Millard looked up in panic. ‘He doesn’t have to know about this, does he?’ she asked again, an imploring look on her face.

‘I shan’t tell him,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but I doubt you’ll keep it a secret for long. Presumably your servants have seen you returning home dressed like a common tart.’ He waved a nonchalant hand at the harlot’s apparel that Sarah had affected.

‘They wouldn’t dare to ask questions,’ said Sarah imperiously. ‘Anyway,’ she added, softening her tone, ‘if they were to be so impertinent, I’d tell them that I’d taken up acting. That it was a part that needed me to dress like this.’

‘Well, there’s no arguing with that,’ commented Hardcastle drily, although it was common knowledge that actresses always changed into their day clothes before leaving the theatre.

‘Am I to be charged over this silly business this evening, Inspector? I really had nothing to do with it. It came as much of a surprise to me as it obviously did to Charles . . . er, Royston, that is.’

‘I’m willing to let it go on this occasion,’ said Hardcastle, giving the impression of great magnanimity, ‘but I don’t expect to hear that you’re hawking your body around my division in future. You can go.’

‘Oh, thank you, Inspector. I’ve been a rather naughty girl, haven’t I?’ Sarah stood up, and shot a relieved smile at Hardcastle.

‘It’s not a case of being naughty, Lady Sarah. I’m investigating the murder of a prostitute who plied her trade on the same pitch as yours. And it could just as easily have been your body we found, or any of the other women. I suppose that silly little bored girls like you think it’s a bit of an adventure, going out on the streets and pretending to be a tart. Well, young lady, I can tell you that you’re playing a dangerous game. For one thing, you’re not able to take care of yourself like the other women. You should’ve stayed at home and embroidered a sampler, or whatever it is that women of your class are supposed to do.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize,’ said Sarah, now thoroughly contrite.

‘Just think what Colonel Millard would’ve thought were he to have received a telegram telling him that his wife’s strangled body, dressed like a tart, had been found in a basement in Washbourne Street. I doubt that your father, the Earl Rankin, would’ve been too impressed, either.’ Disgusted, Hardcastle turned to Marriott. ‘Show Lady Sarah out, Marriott, and then come up to my office.’

‘It looks as though we’ll have to start all over again, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘Naylor seems to be ruled out.’

‘Not necessarily, Marriott. You should know me better than that. I think we’ll have a trip down to Buckinghamshire tomorrow and check his alibi. Just because he says that’s where he was don’t mean it’s true. What was that address again?’

‘Kingsley Hall, sir. It’s just outside the small village of Kingsley, five miles from Wendover.’

‘How do we get there?’

‘Train from Waterloo, sir. It’s about an hour and half’s journey.’ Marriott knew that the DDI would pose that question, and had consulted Bradshaw’s railway guide to discover the route and the times of the services. ‘There’s a train at nine thirty that’ll get us there at ten fifty-two.’

Hardcastle took out his watch. ‘Great heavens, it’s half past ten,’ he said, even though it was one of his foibles that he always knew the exact time. ‘I’ll see you here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, then, Marriott.’ He wound his watch and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket.

Once Marriott had departed, Hardcastle donned his chesterfield overcoat, which he had now taken into use, gathered up his hat and umbrella, and walked down to the front office.

‘The maroons have just gone off, sir,’ said the station officer. ‘Another air raid. Gotha bombers this time, I’m told.’

‘Bugger the air raid, and bugger Fritz,’ said Hardcastle testily. ‘So long as they don’t leave another dead prostitute for me to deal with.’ And with that, he walked out into the fresh night air of Cannon Row and on to Bridge Street where the only sound was the popping of the street gas lamps.

It was a clear night, and the searchlights on Apsley Gate were criss-crossing the sky in search of the deadly bombers.

There was a tram waiting at the stop on Victoria Embankment.

‘Glad to see that Fritz don’t frighten you,’ said Hardcastle to the driver.

‘It’ll take more than those German bastards to rattle me, guv’nor,’ said the driver, and swinging the brass control handle, set his tram in motion.

It was an uneventful journey home, and Hardcastle concluded that the observers at Great Yarmouth had, as usual, informed London of the arrival of the bombers the moment they had crossed the coast. London had, also as usual, immediately sounded the alert, but Hardcastle would be indoors before any Gothas reached the capital.

Hardcastle’s house was in darkness when he arrived. He hung up his overcoat, bowler hat and umbrella, walked into the parlour and poured himself a whisky. He spent a few minutes scanning the late edition of the
Star
, which he had purchased on the way home, and noted, with a measure of grim satisfaction, that a Zeppelin had been shot down at Potters Bar by Lieutenant Tempest of the Royal Flying Corps. He finished his whisky and made his way upstairs, hoping not to disturb his wife, but she was reading a magazine.

‘You’re home late, Ernie,’ said Alice.

‘It’s being a detective that does it,’ said Hardcastle, quickly undressing and sliding into bed beside his wife. ‘The maroons have gone off.’

‘Yes, I heard them,’ said Alice, and carried on reading
Woman’s Weekly
. In common with most of the other residents of London, she had become fatalistic about air raids, and had adopted a similar view to that of troops on the Western Front: If your name’s on it, there’s not much you can do about it.

EIGHT

T
here was a solitary taxi on the rank outside Wendover railway station. The driver, an elderly grey-haired man, was reading a copy of the
Daily Chronicle
that he had spread out on his steering wheel, apparently absorbed in catching up on the war news.

‘D’you know where Kingsley Hall is?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘Yeah, of course I do, guv’nor.’ The cabbie looked up, irritated at the interruption. ‘It’s about five miles from here,’ he said, and carried on reading his newspaper.

‘If it’s not troubling you too much perhaps you’d take me there, then,’ said Hardcastle acidly. ‘And my detective sergeant, too.’

Hardcastle’s throwaway line galvanized the driver into action. He leaped from his seat and opened the rear door of his taxi.

‘Anything to oblige the law, guv’nor,’ he said, half bowing as Hardcastle and Marriott got in.

The cab drove through the open gates of Sir Royston Naylor’s estate and wound its way up a long driveway until the house came into view.

Kingsley Hall was an eighteenth-century parsonage set in generous grounds and had been built in 1790 by the Reverend Dr Barnard. The house, which looked out over rolling countryside, had a typical Georgian symmetry about it, its facade decorated, and to a certain extent spoiled, by baroque frills, as though a later owner had tried to lessen the severity of its design.

‘Good afternoon, sir.’ The door was opened by a butler of forbidding countenance. He was dressed, as befitted his station, in tailcoat and striped trousers.

‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division of the Metropolitan Police, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’ The DDI, expecting the usual disdainful reaction that was common among such flunkeys, was surprised by the butler’s response.

‘Please come in, gentlemen. I’m afraid Sir Royston is in London, if that’s who you were hoping to see. But Her Ladyship’s here.’ The butler smiled and opened the door wide.

‘No, as a matter of fact it was you I wanted to speak to,’ said Hardcastle, aware that butlers tended to know more about what went on in a household than anyone else there.

‘Very well, sir. If you’d care to follow me, I dare say Her Ladyship wouldn’t object to my using the withdrawing room.’

‘No need for all that sort of fuss,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’d find it more comfortable to have a chat in your pantry, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Of course, sir. If you’ll allow me to take your coats, gentlemen, I’ll show you the way. By the by, my name is Drake, sir. Edward Drake.’

Waiting until the butler had deposited their hats, coats and umbrellas on the hall table, the two detectives followed him down the backstairs and into his private quarters.

‘You’ll have come direct from London, then, gentlemen,’ said Drake, once Hardcastle and Marriott were seated in his pantry.

‘Yes, we have.’

‘In that case, and on account of there being a bit of a nip in the air, I dare say you could do justice to a drop of Scotch.’ It was a somewhat untenable excuse; the weather had been mild all week, and today was no exception. Without waiting for a reply, Drake set out tumblers and dispensed substantial measures of Buchanan’s Royal Household whisky. ‘Five shillings and sixpence a bottle,’ he said. ‘Sir Royston insists on it and has it sent down especially from Messrs Harrods in Brompton Road. He’ll not drink anything else.’

‘Good for Sir Royston,’ said Hardcastle, taking a sip.

‘Well now, sir, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?’

Hardcastle told Drake that he was investigating Annie Kelly’s murder, but gave him only as much detail as he needed to know. ‘I’ve spoken to Sir Royston,’ he continued, ‘and he assured me that he spent the weekend of the twenty-third to the twenty-fifth of last month down here.’

Drake hesitated. ‘Well, sir, I—’

‘If you’re concerned about breaching a confidence, Mr Drake, I can assure you that Sir Royston is aware that I’ll be checking his story. In fact, he went further: he insisted upon it.’ That was not quite true, but Hardcastle was not above exaggerating when he thought the occasion demanded it. ‘Anyway, it’s something I have to do; my guv’nor is very particular that I tie up all the loose ends. It’s a nuisance, but there we are.’ He smiled and spread his hands. ‘I’m sure you know that when the boss wants something, you just get on and do it.’ As far as Hardcastle was concerned, though, it was nothing of the sort; the DDI was a stickler for conducting a thorough investigation, and had no need of a senior officer to tell him how to do it.

‘Ah, yes, I do understand that, sir.’ Drake appeared relieved by Hardcastle’s assurance, and took a sip of whisky. ‘Sir Royston was here from the Friday evening, sir. That’d be the twenty-second. He was driven down from London and arrived here in time for dinner with Lady Henrietta at nine.’

‘Lady Henrietta? Is she an earl’s daughter?’ As a senior A Division officer, Hardcastle was familiar with the correct manner of address for the titled, often a trap for the unwary.

‘No, sir. Being the wife of a knight she should rightly be known as Lady Naylor. What’s more, her name’s really Hilda, but Sir Royston always calls her Lady Henrietta, and insists that we refer to Her Ladyship in like manner. I know it’s not correct, of course. Any butler worth his salt would know that. But people don’t seem to worry about things like that any more. It must be something to do with the war.’ In common with many other people, the butler blamed almost everything on the war.