Hardcastle's Quartet Read online

  ‘Sort of. He’s a major in the army, but he’s very busy recruiting.’

  Hardcastle failed to see why a recruiting officer should need binoculars, but decided to let it drop; it was difficult enough extracting some useful information from Winifred Curtis.

  ‘Did you see any of these men calling at Mrs Cheney’s house last night, madam?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Last night …’ Mrs Curtis adopted a thoughtful expression. ‘Yes, I believe I saw the civilian man call there at about nine o’clock. I remember thinking to myself that it was rather late. Not socially acceptable really, not for a gentleman caller. Particularly when the lady of the house is there alone. And she is alone, you know. I didn’t know whether to feel sorry for her or despise her. Consorting with men while her husband was away. I mean it’s not the sort of thing one expects of a—’

  ‘Did you see this man leave?’ Hardcastle, becoming increasingly irritated by the woman’s vacillation, cut across what she was saying.

  ‘No, I didn’t. You see Cuthbert came in at about half past nine and we sat chatting. Cuthbert’s my husband, Inspector. I went up to bed at about a quarter past ten, but Cuthbert stayed down here reading the paper. I don’t know what time he came to bed. I was fast asleep, which makes a change. I sometimes have a terrible job sleeping, you know. I’m always worried in case there’s another of those dreadful air raids.’

  ‘Can you describe this man you saw last night, Mrs Curtis?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Ordinary,’ said Winifred Curtis, after giving the matter some thought.

  ‘Could you be a little more specific?’

  ‘He was wearing a suit, a dark suit. Oh and he had a hat. But he didn’t have an umbrella. I particularly noticed that he didn’t have an umbrella.’

  ‘And his age, Mrs Curtis?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Oh, I’ve no idea. I couldn’t see him that clearly, not without my binoculars.’

  ‘Did he arrive in a cab, Mrs Curtis?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘In a cab?’ Mrs Curtis looked vague. ‘I don’t think so, but he might’ve done, I suppose. I mean he could have got out at the end of the street and walked the rest of the way, couldn’t he?’

  ‘Which recruiting office does your husband work at?’ Marriott finally gave up his attempt to obtain a description of Mrs Cheney’s caller. Unfortunately, it was probably her murderer.

  ‘You’ll find the major at the one in Whitehall,’ said Mrs Curtis proudly, as though he could not possibly be anywhere less prestigious.

  ‘Did you ever speak to Mrs Cheney?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘No. At least only occasionally. We’d sometimes exchange a few words if we happened to meet in the street.’

  ‘Did she ever mention these callers of hers?’

  ‘No, she didn’t, and I didn’t think it my place to ask. I’m not a busybody, you know.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Curtis,’ said Hardcastle, rising to his feet. ‘And thank you for the tea. You’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘It was my pleasure. And if there’s anything else, I’m always here, and I enjoy a chat.’ Winifred Curtis smiled, and rang for the maid. ‘The gentlemen are just leaving, Lottie.’

  ‘Ye gods!’ exclaimed Hardcastle, once he and Marriott were in the street. ‘That woman’s barking mad.’

  ‘I thought I’d ask where Mrs Curtis’s husband worked, sir. If we can get him on his own, he might be able tell us more.’

  ‘Quite likely, unless he’s as scatterbrained as his wife,’ said Hardcastle as he hailed a taxi. ‘The recruiting office in Great Scotland Yard, cabbie. That’s the turning by the Clarence pub, not the police headquarters.’

  ‘I know where it is, guv’nor,’ said the cabbie irritably, as he yanked down the taximeter. ‘I’ve been doing this job for twenty years.’

  Ignoring the cab driver’s waspish riposte, the DDI settled himself in his seat. ‘We’ll see what the galloping major has to say about all this, Marriott.’

  THREE

  The complete absence of volunteers at the recruiting office at Great Scotland Yard, just off Whitehall, was an indication of the extent to which enthusiasm for the war had abated. In 1914, the British public thought that it would ‘all be over by Christmas’, and young men had flocked to the Colours for fear that they would miss the ‘fun’, as they had called it. But now they were wondering which Christmas would see an end to the conflict.

  Countless millions of British, Empire, American and Allied troops had died in and around the blood-soaked killing ground that was no-man’s-land. And as many Germans and Austro-Hungarians had perished too. But the reality was that little had been achieved by their sacrifice save the potential for field upon field of gravestones in a peace that had yet to come.

  An elderly sergeant-major, his tunic bearing Boer War medal ribbons, was seated at a desk just inside the door. Possibly approaching sixty years of age, he was clean-shaven and had a rubicund countenance that seemed to betray a liking for gin. Glancing up as Hardcastle and Marriott entered the recruiting office, he spent a moment or two studying Hardcastle.

  ‘If you’ll forgive me for saying so, sir, I think you might be a touch too old to join up,’ he said, before switching his gaze to Marriott. ‘Although you might just qualify.’

  ‘We’re not here to enlist,’ said Hardcastle sharply. ‘We’re police officers.’ And he introduced himself and Marriott.

  ‘I do beg your pardon, gentlemen. How can I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for Major Cuthbert Curtis.’

  A tired smile crossed the man’s face. ‘Ah, you’ve been talking to my wife,’ he said. ‘I’m Sergeant-Major Cuthbert Curtis, at your service, gentlemen. I suppose you’ve come to talk to me about the unfortunate death of Georgina Cheney.’

  ‘Indeed we have, Mr Curtis,’ said Hardcastle, who long ago had learned that warrant officers should be addressed as ‘mister’.

  ‘My wife gets confused by military ranks, apart from which I think she believes there is some sort of social stigma attached to me not being an officer,’ said Curtis, waving a deprecating hand. ‘And I’m not really a sergeant-major anyway. I’m in the Territorial Force, but I’m a bit too old for active service now, although I did do my bit in South Africa. So this is the best I could offer to help the war effort. Not that there’s much doing here nowadays; the country is war weary and the death toll is a deterrent.’ He stood up and tugged at the bottom of his tunic. ‘I’m a barrister in the real world,’ he continued, ‘but I give a day or two here when I can be spared from the demands of the Old Bailey. You’d better come into the office and we can have a chat in private.’ He nodded to a corporal seated at another desk. ‘Keep an eye on things, Fred, not that I think you’ll have much to do.’

  ‘Right you are, Cutty,’ said the elderly corporal, another Territorial Force volunteer.

  Curtis showed the two detectives into a cubbyhole of an office and offered them a couple of bentwood chairs. ‘A very sad business, Georgina being killed like that.’

  ‘What can you tell me about her, Mr Curtis?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Not a great deal, I’m afraid, Inspector, even though we lived opposite her. Georgina was a real beauty, but I got the impression that she was rather lonely. I believe that she was born and brought up in Malta and came to London for the first time in 1913. Her husband is a commander in the navy and away at the war. And their two boys are away as well; at school, I suppose.’

  ‘I spoke to Commander Cheney this morning,’ said Hardcastle. ‘He’s been granted compassionate leave.’

  ‘What a wretched homecoming for the poor man. He must be terribly cut up about it. How did it happen, Inspector?’

  ‘She was murdered, Mr Curtis,’ said Marriott.

  ‘Murdered? But I thought it was a dreadful accident. I understood that she fell from the window.’

  ‘We believe she was pushed out after being strangled,’ said Hardcastle, deciding that he could be more open with a criminal barrister.


  ‘You’ve got a tricky case on your hands, then, Inspector,’ said Curtis thoughtfully.

  ‘We spoke to your wife about an hour ago, sir,’ said Marriott, ‘and she mentioned having seen men calling at Mrs Cheney’s house. Apparently Mrs Curtis occasionally used binoculars to keep an eye on things, so she said. But she also said that you were in the habit of taking them with you when you went on duty and consequently she didn’t have them with her last night.’ The question of the binoculars was an irrelevancy, but he was interested to hear what Curtis would say about them.

  Curtis slowly shook his head. ‘We don’t have any binoculars now, Sergeant Marriott. The Defence of the Realm Act forbids the purchase of them, and although the law didn’t require it, I brought ours here at the beginning of the war and handed them over to the recruiting officer for safe keeping.’ He paused. ‘To be frank with you, I’m afraid my wife’s mental health has been affected by the loss of our son Gregory. He was a pilot in the Royal Naval Air Service, but he was shot down and killed not far from his base in France early in 1915. She’s not really been the same since.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Curtis,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Does that mean that your wife’s information is unlikely to be of much value?’

  ‘Not necessarily. I think Winifred probably did see what she said she saw. She spends a lot of her time gazing out of the window. The problem is that she refuses to accept that Gregory is dead, and I think she half expects to see him come marching up the road one day.’

  ‘Your wife mentioned seeing a man calling at Mrs Cheney’s house at about nine o’clock last night, but she didn’t see him leave.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that she did, Inspector. I got in at about half past nine and Winifred went up to bed at just after ten. I spent an hour or so reading the evening paper and going over a brief for a rather complicated fraud case I’m due to appear in.’

  ‘Did she mention having seen this man, Mr Curtis?’

  ‘No, she didn’t. Not that I’d’ve paid much attention even if she had.’

  ‘Did you by any chance see the man leave, sir?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘I’m afraid not. I don’t have much time for looking out of windows.’

  ‘How well do you know Mrs Cheney?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘Not all that well, Inspector. I’ve called on her a few times in case there’s anything I could do. I suppose you’d call it being neighbourly. It’s not a happy state of affairs for a woman to be on her own, especially if she’s suddenly faced with a domestic crisis, like a fuse having blown or a tap washer needing to be replaced. I’m sure you know the sort of thing I mean. And you can never get people in to deal with minor repairs like that these days.’

  ‘One other thing, Mr Curtis. If your wife should see any callers at the Cheneys’ house, perhaps you’d let me know.’

  ‘Of course, but isn’t that unlikely now that Georgina’s dead?’

  ‘Only if the caller doesn’t know she’s dead, and whoever they are, they might be able to fill in a few gaps for me.’ But Hardcastle was really hoping that the murderer would call again, and profess ignorance of the tragedy in an attempt to allay suspicion. He was even more familiar with the habits of criminals than was the barrister.

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘What’s more it might be necessary for me to mount an observation on the Cheneys’ house. I wonder if you’d have any objection to one or two of my officers doing so from your house.’

  ‘None at all, Inspector. We’d be only too happy to help, and I’m sure Winifred would welcome the company.’

  ‘Well, thank you for your assistance, Mr Curtis,’ said Hardcastle, determined that if he were to select officers for an observation they would not be Catto and Keeler. ‘If you should think of anything else, perhaps you’d contact me at Cannon Row police station.’

  ‘Certainly, Inspector. Of course there’s always a chance that we might bump into each other at the Bailey.’

  ‘Are you going to set up an observation, sir?’ asked Marriott, as he and Hardcastle entered the downstairs bar of the Red Lion public house just outside New Scotland Yard.

  ‘I’m thinking about it, Marriott, but I’ll be able to think better when I’ve had a couple of pints.’

  ‘Morning, Mr Hardcastle.’ The landlord wiped the top of the bar. ‘Usual?’

  ‘Yes, please, Albert. And a couple of fourpenny cannons while you’re about it.’

  The next ten minutes were spent in silence as the two CID officers sank their much needed pints, and consumed their steak and kidney pies.

  ‘D’you think an observation will turn up anything, sir?’ asked Marriott, brushing pie crumbs from his waistcoat.

  ‘Two more pints, Albert, when you’ve a moment,’ said Hardcastle, and turned to his sergeant. ‘Wouldn’t do any harm, Marriott. On the other hand it might be a good idea if Commander Cheney would agree to my putting a man inside his house rather than in the Curtises’ house.’

  ‘Mrs Curtis will be disappointed, sir. I think she’s taken a shine to Catto.’

  ‘More than I have,’ muttered Hardcastle. He downed his second pint of bitter and wiped his moustache. ‘In fact, I think we’ll have a chat with the commander later this evening. There’s no point in going now. If we turn up at about eight o’clock we might kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.’

  When Hannah Clarke opened the door of the Cheneys’ house in Whilber Street, she had replaced her maid’s uniform with a rather fashionable maroon dress. And she made no attempt at a curtsy.

  ‘Hello, Inspector. Please come in,’ said Hannah, and led them into the drawing room.

  ‘We’ve come to see the commander, Hannah,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘He’s gone, sir.’ Hannah sat down opposite the detectives and arranged her skirt, making it clear that she had abandoned her inhibitions about sitting down in one of her employers’ reception rooms.

  ‘Gone?’ Hardcastle raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, sir. He’s returned to his ship. He had a telegram, you see. He just stayed long enough to have a bath and a change of clothing, and then he went off to see his sons the very next morning. I think he went to Windsor first to see Tom at Eton, and then to Dartmouth to break the news to his other son, Roland. He told me that he was going straight back to his ship from there.’

  ‘But what about the funeral?’ Hardcastle was amazed that the commander had returned to duty without waiting to bury his wife.

  ‘The commander’s been in touch with Harrods, sir. They’re taking care of all the arrangements.’

  ‘Is he coming back for the funeral?’ Hardcastle found it hard to accept that a widower would absent himself from the interment of his late wife. It was something he failed to understand.

  ‘No, sir. He said that his ship is about to sail – that was what the telegram was about – and he never wanted to miss the possibility of going into action.’

  ‘What about the two boys?’

  ‘He said that they wouldn’t be going because it would interfere with their education. And he didn’t reckon that a funeral was a place for young men anyway.’

  ‘And when is the funeral to be, Hannah?’

  ‘Thursday, the twentieth, sir. Ten o’clock down Brompton Cemetery.’

  ‘Ten o’clock?’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘That’s early for a funeral.’

  ‘It was the only time that Harrods could fit it in,’ said Hannah. ‘The commander did say, though,’ she continued, dismissing the matter of the funeral, ‘that I was to let you have another look around if you wanted to, or help you in any other way. The master’s promoted me to housekeeper, you see, and given me an extra twenty pounds a year.’ Hannah smiled at her unexpected good fortune.

  ‘You’re a lucky girl, lass, being made housekeeper at your age.’

  ‘Yes, I am, sir. The master’s left me in charge of everything while he’s away.’

  ‘Well, Hannah, Sergeant Marriott and me would like to have another look round t
he house. There might just be something we missed when we were here yesterday morning.’

  ‘If there’s anything else I can do, sir, just let me know. In the meantime I dare say you could do with a cup of tea.’

  ‘Thank you, Hannah, that would be most welcome.’

  ‘I’ll bring it in here when it’s made, then,’ said Hannah, and walked confidently from the room.

  ‘I think young Hannah’s promotion’s gone to her head, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle as he crossed the room and opened the escritoire. ‘She’s certainly become more confident of herself since we were here yesterday.’

  Hardcastle spent a few minutes sorting through the contents of the escritoire. There was a collection of letters from Georgina’s husband, one or two from her sons in a crabbed schoolboy hand, a household accounts book and several bills marked ‘paid’.

  Hardcastle replaced the letters in their respective pigeonholes and withdrew a leather-bound blotting book from beneath them.

  ‘Ah! I think we have something interesting here, Marriott, and I’m sure it wasn’t here yesterday when I looked. Listen to this: “You might think that you can just abandon me, casting me aside like a toy what you’ve grown tired of. Well, I can assure you that I shan’t let you go that easy. You’re not in no position to dictate, not with a career what would be damaged if our little arrangement was to come out. And your wife would have something to say about it. So, unless …” And that’s it, Marriott; that’s as far as she got. It looks very much as though she was murdered before she could finish it.’

  ‘It seems as though Georgina Cheney was a blackmailer, then, sir, but a bit naive, putting her threats in writing.’

  ‘That don’t matter so much, Marriott, but it would’ve been useful to know who she was going to send this letter to. She was obviously interrupted, either by a caller or because young Hannah came into the room. But it gives us a motive to work on.’

  ‘Perhaps she was interrupted by the arrival of the man she was writing to, sir, and that he then—’

  ‘I’m not sure it was Mrs Cheney who wrote it, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, butting in sharply. ‘It’s not what you’d call an educated hand and the grammar ain’t all that good. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’