Hardcastle's Obsession (7 page)

‘I don’t know nothing about her family,’ responded Clara Foskett truculently.

‘Really? But you said she’s your niece. That means that either her father or her mother is either your brother or sister.’

‘Well, she’s not exactly a niece,’ said Clara Foskett. ‘More of a distant relative.’

‘D’you have a telephone here, Mrs Foskett?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘Can’t afford such luxuries, unlike some. What d’you want a telephone for, anyway?’

‘To send for a Black Annie to take you to the police station,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Unless you come up with an answer now.’

‘All right, all right,’ said Mrs Foskett, now thoroughly alarmed. ‘She was just renting a room here, but I never knew what she was up to.’

‘I’ll take that with a pinch of salt,’ said Hardcastle. ‘So, what
do
you know about her?’

‘Only her name.’ Clara Foskett paused. ‘But a letter come for her yesterday.’

‘Fetch it,’ commanded Hardcastle, his patience shortening by the second.

Mrs Foskett scuttled into her sitting room, returning moments later clutching a letter.

Hardcastle snatched the missive and put it in his pocket. ‘You’ll be hearing from the police again, Mrs Foskett,’ he said. ‘Running a brothel can get you locked up for quite a long time. I should think you’ll settle in at Holloway prison quite happily.’ And with that parting sally, he and Marriott left Mrs Foskett to contemplate a future incarcerated in the notorious North London women’s prison.

‘At least we’ve got a name of someone Annie Kelly was seeing regularly, sir,’ said Marriott, as he and Hardcastle strode down Ebury Street in search of a cab.

‘Yes, for what good that’ll do us. But I suppose we’ll have to pay a visit to the Admiralty,’ said Hardcastle, stopping to light his pipe.

‘Are you going to do anything about Mrs Foskett running a brothel, sir?’

‘Haven’t got the time, Marriott, but remind me to have a word with the sub-divisional inspector at Gerald Road. He’ll likely want to nick Mrs Foskett in the fullness of time.’ Hardcastle glanced at his watch. ‘There won’t be anyone at the Admiralty at this time of night, so it’ll have to be tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow’s Saturday, sir,’ observed Marriott.

Hardcastle stopped again. ‘Are you suggesting that the Royal Navy takes the weekend off in wartime, Marriott?’

‘I don’t know, sir, but we might have a wasted journey.’

‘Find out, Marriott. Anyway, the Admiralty’s only down the road from the nick.’

Hardcastle eventually spotted a cab. ‘Scotland Yard, cabbie,’ he said to the driver. ‘Tell ’em Cannon Row, Marriott,’ he added in an aside, ‘and half the time you’ll finish up at Cannon Street in the City.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott wearily, who had been given this advice on almost every occasion that he and Hardcastle had returned to their police station by taxi.

Once in his office, Hardcastle donned his spectacles and tore open the letter addressed to Annie Kelly.

‘This letter addressed to Annie Kelly comes from an address in Greenwich, Marriott. It don’t say much: just the usual stuff about the family. But here’s the interesting bit. “I hope you’ve settled in your new job as a housemaid in Ebury Street, Annie dear. Do let your pa and me know how you’re getting on. And come and see us when you’ve got a day off.” It’s signed “Your loving mother.”’ Hardcastle placed the letter in the centre of his desk. ‘It looks like it’ll be us breaking the news to Annie’s loving mother, Marriott.’

‘Yes, sir. When d’you propose to do that?’

‘As soon as we can fit it in, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but that’ll be after we’ve tracked down Petty Officer Nelson.’

When Hardcastle arrived at Cannon Row at his usual time of half past eight on Saturday morning, Marriott was waiting for him.

‘I’ve spoken to the Admiralty, sir. The custodian there told me that a Lieutenant de Courcy is the duty officer this weekend, and will be arriving at about ten o’clock this morning.’

‘Ten o’clock?’ echoed Hardcastle. ‘You wouldn’t think there was a war on, would you, Marriott? Or doesn’t Fritz come out to play earlier than that on a Saturday?’

Marriott remained silent, knowing from previous experience that it would be unwise to encourage one of Hardcastle’s acerbic diatribes about the armed forces and the war.

At five minutes to ten, Hardcastle seized his bowler hat and umbrella, shouted for Marriott, and together they made their way down Whitehall.

As the two policemen passed through the gate of the Admiralty, an armed sailor, assuming Hardcastle to be an officer, sloped arms and gave him a butt salute.

The DDI solemnly acknowledged the compliment by raising his bowler hat. ‘For all the good he is, Marriott,’ he said in an aside, ‘we could be a couple of German spies.’ He waved his umbrella at Admiralty House to the left of the main building. ‘Admiral Nelson lay in state there in 1806 after they’d brought his body home from Gibraltar in a cask of spirits of wine, Marriott.’

‘Is that so, sir?’ Marriott had always been surprised by Hardcastle’s occasional flashes of historical knowledge, even though he had heard of Nelson’s lying in state every time he and the DDI had passed through the gates of the Admiralty. Apart from the snippet about the liquid in the cask. ‘But I thought his body was brought home in a barrel of brandy, sir,’ he said.

‘Only as far as Gibraltar, Marriott. Then it was put into a cask of spirits of wine for the voyage back to London.’

A uniformed custodian opened the door. ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’ he asked.

‘Police officers,’ said Hardcastle, and produced his warrant card. ‘We’re here to see a Lieutenant de Courcy. I understand he’s the duty officer.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The custodian beckoned to a messenger. ‘Take these police officers to Lieutenant de Courcy’s office, Charlie.’ That done, the custodian turned to a telephone to alert de Courcy of the detectives’ arrival.

The tall naval officer rounded his desk with hand outstretched. ‘Hugo de Courcy, gentlemen.’ He paused, appraising the two detectives. ‘I’ve a feeling we’ve met before,’ he said.

‘Indeed we have,’ said Hardcastle. ‘A couple of years ago; just around the outbreak of war, I believe.’

‘Yes, of course. Inspector Hardcastle, is it not?’

‘That’s so.’

‘Please take a seat, gentlemen, and tell me how I may be of service to you,’ said de Courcy.

‘I’m investigating the murder of a prostitute,’ said Hardcastle, and recounted brief details of the circumstances under which Annie Kelly’s body had been found. ‘We’ve reason to believe that a petty officer by the name of Nelson was seen in the woman’s company on several occasions. I’m very anxious to trace this man, Lieutenant de Courcy. He’s known as Jimmy, but I suppose his first name is James.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ murmured de Courcy, and made a few notes on a foolscap pad. Replacing the cap on his fountain pen, he put it down beside the pad. ‘It will take a few minutes to get the appropriate documents, Inspector,’ he said. ‘They’re kept in the vaults, you see. But in the meantime, may I offer you a cup of tea?’

‘Thank you,’ murmured Hardcastle, and settled down for what he imagined would be a long wait.

De Courcy struck a brass bell on his desk and a clerk appeared. ‘Perhaps you’d order some tea for these two gentlemen, Rawlings. Oh, and a cup for me. Once you’ve arranged that, go down to the records section and draw the service history of this man.’ He quickly wrote Nelson’s name and details on a slip of paper and handed it to the clerk. ‘He’s a petty officer, not a dead admiral,’ he added with a wry smile.

To Hardcastle’s surprise, the tea arrived within minutes, and a pile of files containing records of service shortly afterwards.

‘It’ll probably come as no surprise to you, Inspector, that there is more than one Petty Officer James Nelson in the Royal Navy,’ said de Courcy, stirring his tea with one hand while sifting through the files with the other. ‘Have you any idea when this petty officer was here in England?’

‘All I can tell you is that witnesses spoke of seeing him a week ago.’

De Courcy examined his files once more. ‘Two Nelsons were killed in action at Jutland in June of this year,’ he said. ‘Another is serving on HMS
Royal Oak
at sea, and then . . . ah, here we are: a PO James Nelson is in HMS
Epsom
currently undergoing a refit at Chatham. He could be your man, Inspector.’

‘How do we find him, Lieutenant?’

De Courcy smiled, and arranged the files into a neat pile. ‘Go down to Chatham and ask the ship’s captain, I should think.’

It was three o’clock that afternoon when Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at Chatham Dockyard. A Metropolitan Police constable of the Dockyard Division and a sailor armed with rifle and fixed bayonet stood in front of the closed dockyard gates.

‘All correct, sir.’ As the two detectives approached, the policeman saluted even before Hardcastle had spoken a word.

‘How d’you know who I am?’ asked Hardcastle suspiciously.

‘You’re DDI Hardcastle of the Royal A, sir,’ said the PC with a grin. The informal name for the Whitehall Division was a recognition that five royal palaces fell within its area of responsibility. ‘I’m PC Ledger, sir, and I served at Rochester Row up to a couple of months ago.’

‘Well, Ledger, as you’re such a clever officer you can tell me where I can find HMS
Epsom
.’

‘Certainly, sir. I’ll just get my mate to relieve me, and I’ll show you the way.’ Ledger shouted to another constable in the gate office. ‘Harry, give us a blow while I show Mr Hardcastle the way to
Epsom
.’

PC Ledger pushed open the huge gate, and led Hardcastle and Marriott confidently through the labyrinthine dockyard, eventually arriving at the gangway to HMS
Epsom
. A khaki-clad Royal Marine stood guard.

‘This Bootneck will want to have a glim at your brief, sir. Suspicious lot, the Bootnecks,’ said Ledger, nodding towards the Royal Marines sentry. ‘Couple of police officers to see your skipper, mate.’

FIVE

T
he officer of the day, a youthful sub-lieutenant with a telescope tucked beneath his left arm, stood at the top of HMS
Epsom
’s gangway. Hardcastle and Marriott, having been alerted to naval traditions by Ledger, the dockyard PC, raised their hats as they stepped on board. The DDI explained who he wished to see, and the two detectives were conducted to the captain’s cabin.

‘Henry Cobbold, Inspector. I’m
Epsom
’s skipper,’ said the young lieutenant-commander, once Hardcastle had introduced himself and Marriott. ‘How can I help you?’ He stepped across the cabin and shook hands with each of the detectives.

‘I understand from Lieutenant de Courcy at the Admiralty that a Petty Officer James Nelson is a member of your crew, Captain,’ said Hardcastle.

‘Yes, he is,’ said Cobbold. ‘The Admiralty sent me a signal saying that you’d be coming. De Courcy said that you think Nelson might know something about a murder.’

‘Indeed.’ Hardcastle told the captain about the murder of Annie Kelly that he was investigating, and that Petty Officer Nelson might be able to assist him. ‘But first, Captain, can you tell me where Nelson was on the night of Sunday the twenty-fourth of September?’

‘Certainly.’
Epsom
’s captain stepped across the cabin and referred to a duty state displayed on a bulkhead. ‘He was here, Inspector,’ he said, glancing back at Hardcastle. ‘He returned from shore leave on Tuesday the nineteenth of September. He’s been aboard ever since then.’

‘Is there any chance he could have slipped ashore and gone to London? Last weekend, say.’

‘Certainly not, Inspector,’ said the captain firmly. ‘In fact, I saw him several times over that weekend.’

‘That rules him out, then,’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘Would it be possible to have a word with Nelson, Captain?’

‘Of course.’ Cobbold opened the curtain at the entrance to his cabin. ‘Pass the word for Petty Officer Nelson,’ he said to the marine sentry.

‘You sent for me, sir?’ Minutes later a smartly dressed, well-built rating appeared in the entrance of the cabin, his cap tucked beneath his left arm.

‘Come in, Nelson,’ said the captain. ‘These two gentlemen are police officers from London, and they want to ask you a few questions. At ease.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said Nelson, adopting a more relaxed stance.

‘When did you last see Annie Kelly, Nelson?’ asked Hardcastle, deciding to get straight to the point.

Nelson glanced at his captain and back at Hardcastle. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t know anyone of that name.’

‘Are you married, Nelson?’ Hardcastle immediately sensed the reason for the young petty officer’s reticence.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, I shan’t go running to your wife to tell her you’ve been shagging a Pimlico whore, lad.’

‘Is this true, Nelson?’ demanded Cobbold, whose immediate concern was that Nelson might have contracted a venereal disease. ‘You’ll need to see the ship’s surgeon straight away. And that’s an order.’

‘If you don’t mind, Captain,’ said Hardcastle mildly, ‘I’d rather you left this to me.’

‘I’ve disrated men for less,’ muttered Cobbold, half to himself.

‘Maybe,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but the matter I’m dealing with is far more serious than the consequences of a sailor consorting with a prostitute.’ He turned back to Nelson. ‘Annie Kelly’s been murdered. Her body was found in the basement of a house in Washbourne Street, Westminster, on the morning of Monday the twenty-fifth of September.’

‘Oh my oath!’ exclaimed Nelson, clearly shocked by this news. ‘Who could’ve done such a thing? She was a sweet kid was Annie.’

‘So you do know her,’ said Marriott irritably. ‘So, rather than wasting any more of our time, can you tell me if she ever told you about anyone else she was seeing?’