Hardcastle's Secret Agent Read online

  ‘Do you happen to know, Mrs Shepherd,’ asked Bradley, ‘if your sister-in-law employed a cleaner or someone who would have gone to the house fairly regularly?’

  ‘Yes. It was a Mrs Timms, Violet Timms. I met her once when I dropped in on Helen after I’d been shopping in Kingston. She was a birdlike little woman, nearly sixty, I should think, and didn’t seem to have the physique to do all that Helen said she did. She’d not been with them for very long, Helen told me. In fact, only since they’d moved in.’

  ‘How long had the Ropers lived at their Kingston Hill address, then?’ asked Bradley.

  ‘Not very long,’ said Daphne. ‘Frank had been working abroad for years in, I think, South Africa. They probably returned to this country about six months ago or thereabouts, although I’m not sure about that.’ Daphne Shepherd paused as a sudden thought occurred to her. ‘But surely you can’t possibly think that Mrs Timms might have had something to do with this terrible business?’ she said, a look of disbelief on her face.

  ‘Good heavens, no! It’s just that our fingerprint people found marks about the house that were neither your brother’s nor his wife’s. We need to eliminate all the innocent people, you see – including yourself. Did you often visit the house?’

  ‘Apart from that one occasion I mentioned, Basil and I hadn’t been to see them, so far, but from what Helen told me, the way Mrs Timms cleaned the place, I shouldn’t think she left any fingerprints anywhere,’ said Daphne Shepherd, a statement that confirmed what little the public knew about the science of fingerprints.

  After obtaining Daphne’s fingerprints, Bradley turned his attention to Timms once more. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know where this Mrs Timms lives, would you?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. Although, I should think it was probably quite local.’

  ‘One other thing, Mrs Shepherd,’ said Bradley. ‘D’you know how often Mrs Timms went in to clean for the Ropers?’

  ‘I think it was Monday, Wednesday and Friday.’ Daphne Shepherd paused. ‘Or it may have been Saturday rather than Friday. I don’t honestly remember.’ She frowned as a thought occurred to her. ‘I suppose it’ll be up to us to arrange the funeral,’ she added pensively.

  ‘I’ll advise you when the coroner releases the bodies for burial, Mrs Shepherd,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Incidentally, are your parents still living?’

  ‘No, they’re not. There’s no one else who needs to be told. Frank and I don’t have any other relatives.’

  ‘Thank you for your help, Mrs Shepherd, and you too, Mr Shepherd. I’ll leave you my telephone number in case you think of anything that might be of assistance to us.’ Hardcastle paused. ‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention this tragedy to the press, should they get in touch.’

  Hardcastle and Bradley walked out to their car and set off for Putney. ‘I’ve made sure that nothing’s been released to the press about these murders, Jack. Consequently, it’s unlikely that Mrs Timms knows about them. In fact, I think I’ll ask for a D-notice to be applied to this investigation.’

  ‘With any luck, this Mrs Timms will turn up for work tomorrow morning, sir,’ said Bradley.

  ‘Exactly, Jack, and we’ll be there to meet her.’

  Detective Inspector Kenneth Black had assigned Detective Constable Douglas Dyer to duty at the George and Dragon that evening. There were no women detectives on V Division, but Black was a resourceful officer and called in a favour from Detective Inspector Duncan Fraser, an old friend of his at Vine Street police station on C Division.

  When the Metropolitan Police finally decided that women detectives could be of some value, it was C Division that had first call on their services.

  For members of the general public who were looking for a good time on an evening out, Soho and the West End were regarded as the places to go, affording them a daring glance at what they believed was a more risqué side of life. The police, however, had a different view. To them the area was a hotbed of vice, decadence and gambling. But, above all, it was those three pursuits that attracted the villains who made a profit out of preying on the smaller minnows of the underworld. The innocent and honest traders, too, were easy marks for those who used the payment of ‘protection’ money as a euphemism for extortion.

  ‘Well, it’s good to talk to you, Kenneth,’ said Fraser, once the niceties were exhausted, ‘but I’m sure you didn’t ring me just to pass the time of day. What d’you want?’

  ‘I’ll say this for you, Duncan,’ said Black, ‘you always cut to the chase. I want a woman.’

  ‘Don’t we all, Kenneth, dear boy. Well, you’ve come to the right place. What age, colour and size d’you want? Long hair, blonde hair? And will it be by the hour or all night?’

  Black roared with laughter. ‘You don’t change, Duncan,’ he said, and went on to explain about the double murder that had occurred on the Kingston sub-division. ‘Have you got a woman detective constable you can lend me just for this evening?’ he continued, and told Fraser why he needed her services.

  There was only the briefest of pauses before Fraser said, ‘Aye. You can borrow WDC Marion Lewis. She’s a bright lassie and she runs rings round half the male detective constables I’ve come across. I’ll get the area car to run her down to Kingston police station on the bell, Kenneth. In that way, she’ll be with you in a matter of about twenty minutes. I’ll leave it to you to take it from there, rather than her trying to make a meet at the venue.’

  ‘Thanks very much, Duncan. I owe you one. Incidentally, what does this lady detective look like?’

  Having received a brief description of WDC Lewis, Black deputed Douglas Dyer to take the CID car, collect her from Kingston police station and go straight to the George and Dragon on Kingston Hill.

  ‘You can brief her on the way, Douglas, but despite what the guv’nor said about being discreet, I don’t see the point. Start asking questions as soon as you get there.’

  Douglas Dyer was taken aback by WDC Marion Lewis’s appearance. She was a bottle blonde, wore an excess of make-up, a clinging woollen dress and fishnet stockings. In short, that and her seductive figure made her seem to be the epitome of a Soho tart.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Jock,’ said Lewis, using Dyer’s nickname, once introductions had been effected. ‘I was helping a couple of the lads to track down a particularly nasty ponce operating in Shepherd Market when I got the call from the DI. But the ponce will keep. If you can find me somewhere to change, I’ve got a much more respectable dress here.’ She held up a holdall. ‘And I’ll get rid of some of this make-up.’

  By the time that Dyer and Lewis arrived at the George and Dragon, it was getting on for eight o’clock. Bearing in mind what DI Black had said, Dyer made a point of approaching the licensee the moment they entered the pub.

  ‘Can I have a word, guv’nor?’ said Dyer, discreetly displaying his warrant card.

  ‘There’s never any problems here, Officer,’ said the landlord, believing that the arrival of the police usually brought trouble with them. ‘This is a law-abiding tavern, I can assure you.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt about that,’ said Dyer, ‘but I’m involved in the enquiry into the murder of Frank and Helen Roper.’

  ‘Terrible business, that. Always in here Friday and Saturday evenings without fail, were the Ropers. Never known them miss, not until this weekend. So, what can I do for you?’

  ‘We want to learn as much as we can about their background,’ continued Dyer. ‘Is there anyone in here tonight who might know something of them, apart from just passing the time of day?’

  The landlord ran a hand around his chin as he considered Dyer’s request. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually, ‘the colonel.’ He pointed to a man at the far end of the bar. ‘I think he knew them quite well.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘No idea. He’s always been known to us as the colonel.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Dyer and Lewis moved along the bar to join the man that the landlord had indicated. ‘Good evening
, Colonel.’

  ‘Do I know you?’ The colonel’s sharp response was a combination of irritation and suspicion.

  ‘No. I’m Detective Constable Dyer and I understand from the landlord that you knew the Ropers – Frank and Helen – quite well.’ Once again, he displayed his warrant card discreetly.

  ‘Quite right, old boy,’ said the colonel, his attitude softening immediately. He glanced at Marion Lewis. ‘I see you’ve brought your wife with you. Pretty clever that, using your good lady as cover. Attractive, too, if you don’t mind my saying so, my dear.’ He smiled at Marion Lewis.

  ‘She’s not my wife, Colonel. May I introduce Detective Constable Lewis.’

  The colonel bent low, pretending to kiss Marion Lewis’s outstretched hand. He then stood up to survey her. She was, indeed, a good-looking woman, now attired in a summery dress, her shining blonde hair decently arranged and her make-up skilfully applied. No longer did she resemble the prostitute that had so alarmed DC Dyer. But it would be a foolish man who attempted to take advantage of her, and she had already assessed the character of the red-faced army officer. She’d met a few like him in the past.

  ‘By Jove! Well, I must say that the old police force is looking up, eh? By the by, my name’s Curtis – Peter Curtis – and I’m not a colonel, I’m actually a major, a serving major.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dyer. ‘You must be stationed locally, then.’

  ‘Indeed, and I’m not telling you where, or what I do. Secret and all that, don’t you know.’

  ‘Of course. Can I buy you a drink, Major Curtis?’

  ‘Damned decent of you. A large Scotch and soda, please.’

  Dyer ordered the drinks, including one for DC Lewis and a small Scotch for himself, secure in the knowledge that he could claim the cost as a legitimate expense incurred in the garnering of valuable information.

  ‘Good health,’ said Curtis, raising his glass in salute. ‘Now then, what can I tell you?’

  ‘For a start, what sort of people were they?’

  ‘Very hospitable.’ Curtis paused. ‘This conversation is entirely entre nous, I trust.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dyer, not meaning a word of it.

  ‘When you say hospitable, Major Curtis, what exactly d’you mean by that?’ asked Marion Lewis, tiring of what she saw as ‘pussyfooting around’.

  ‘Ah! Cutting to the chase, I see.’ Curtis faced the WDC. ‘They invited me to dinner on two or three occasions. My wife is in Cornwall, you see, and one gets a bit tired of eating in the mess night after night. Damned decent of the Ropers.’ He brushed at his moustache, something he did frequently during the course of their conversation.

  ‘Was she a good hostess?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘A very good hostess. Why? What have you heard?’ Curtis suddenly seemed very wary of the question.

  ‘D’you mean about the affair?’ suggested Lewis casually. As a WDC serving at Vine Street in the heart of London’s West End, she was accustomed to dealing with women of questionable morals, and realized immediately what was behind Curtis’s question. But her own fictitious allegation, although failing to confirm it, led to an admission of sorts.

  ‘There wasn’t an affair,’ said Curtis sharply, and took a sip of his whisky. ‘But it was a damned close-run thing, as the Duke of Wellington’s supposed to have said after the Battle of Waterloo, don’t you know? She invited me to dinner one night and it wasn’t until I got there that I found that Frank was absent. She gave me some story about him having been called away to Windsor suddenly, but quite frankly, I think she’d set it up knowing he was going to be away. However, I misread the whole thing. She was as straight as a die. Consequently, I didn’t finish up spending the night with her as I’d hoped, begging your pardon, miss.’ He coughed affectedly. ‘Another drink?’

  ‘Was that the only occasion?’ asked Dyer, once Curtis had bought a round of drinks.

  ‘No, it wasn’t. I’m sorry to have to say that she felt sorry for me, nothing more. In fact, I think that half the time she wanted the company. Whatever the reason, she invited me to dinner on several future occasions, but the lady was not into playing games.’ Curtis chuckled and brushed at his moustache again, but Marion Lewis deduced that, despite his bluster and his overt ladies’ man attitude, his ego had taken a knock at having failed to seduce Helen Roper on those occasions.

  SEVEN

  Hardcastle and Bradley arrived at the house of the murdered Ropers at eight thirty on Monday morning.

  ‘All correct, sir.’ The police constable on duty at the house saluted.

  ‘Good morning. PC Suttling, isn’t it? Am I right?’ Hardcastle had not had time to do more than glance at the constable when he had called at his house the day he had moved in, but now that he studied him, he could see that he was one of the old-school policemen. His belt strained to contain his rotund belly, and he was a man clearly content to remain a PC until the day of his retirement.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Suttling grinned, pleased that the DDI had remembered him. In his experience, PCs were usually addressed by their divisional number, if they were spoken to at all. It was unusual for a senior officer to recall a name, and particularly if that senior officer was a detective.

  ‘Has Mrs Timms arrived yet, Suttling?’

  ‘Nobody’s arrived until you turned up, sir. Anyway, I don’t know a Mrs Timms.’

  ‘She’s the Ropers’ charlady. When she does arrive let her in, but don’t tell her why you’re here. If she asks, you can tell her it’s about a burglary, but don’t mention the murders.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Suttling, and saluted again as Hardcastle and Bradley entered the house.

  Ten minutes later, Mrs Timms arrived and marched into the kitchen where Hardcastle and Bradley were sitting. ‘Why is there a policeman outside?’ she demanded to know, hands on hips. ‘And who are you?’

  Daphne Shepherd, Frank Roper’s sister, had described Violet Timms as birdlike and it was a good description. She was no more than five foot four or five in height and appeared almost frail of stature, as though a puff of wind would blow her away. She was wearing a black dress and flat, no-nonsense shoes. Nevertheless, there was an air of determination about her that implied she would not stand for any nonsense, even from policemen, no matter how important they thought they were.

  ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of V Division, and this is Detective Sergeant Bradley, Mrs Timms.’

  ‘Well, that’s as maybe, but what’s going on, I’d like to know?’ Mrs Timms planted her large bag on the table and took out an overall that she donned while continuing to talk to the detectives. She also took out a paper packet of five Woodbine cigarettes that she slipped into her pocket.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr and Mrs Roper are dead, Mrs Timms. They were murdered on Friday evening, here in their own home.’

  ‘Glory be to God!’ exclaimed Violet Timms, and crossed herself. Her spontaneous adulation of the Almighty revealed the trace of an Irish accent. ‘Who would have done such a thing?’

  ‘Do sit down, Mrs Timms,’ said Hardcastle, pulling out a chair from beneath the kitchen table. ‘Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea. Sergeant Bradley has just made a pot.’ Without waiting for a reply, Bradley poured the tea and handed it to the charlady.

  ‘Have you caught whoever did this dreadful deed?’ asked Violet Timms, once she had taken a mouthful of tea. She took out the packet of cigarettes and extracted one without offering any to the policemen. She did, however, accept a light from Bradley.

  ‘No, we haven’t. Not yet,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but perhaps you can help us, Mrs Timms. What sort of couple were the Ropers?’

  Mrs Timms carefully replaced her cup in the saucer and looked searchingly at Hardcastle and then at Bradley, as though gauging whether to trust them. It was as if she was emulating the confidentiality observed by clergymen and doctors. ‘They were always arguing, Inspector,’ she said eventually, as she rolled the ash carefully from her cigar
ette into her saucer. ‘I’d be upstairs cleaning the bedrooms and they’d be down here in the drawing room, going at it hammer and tongs. I’m surprised they didn’t start throwing things. That Mrs Roper had a temper on her, I can tell you that. And her language wasn’t what I’d have expected of a lady. But then, perhaps she wasn’t a lady – a real lady, I mean. Mind you, she had her fair share of airs and graces, had Mrs Roper, as if she’d been one of them memsahibs in India with a houseful of servants. A bit of a madam, but like I said she had a tongue on her when she was up to full steam.’

  ‘Have you any idea what the arguments were about?’ asked Bradley.

  ‘I’m not one for tittle-tattle, Sergeant Bradley, but they were shouting so loud, I couldn’t help overhearing. On the one hand it seemed to have something to do with Mr Roper’s work, although I’ve no idea what he did for a living. Mind you, they didn’t seem short of money. But on the other it was about herself wanting to have children, so it was. It seemed that Mr Roper was dead against it. I felt sorry for the mistress in a way. It’s only natural that a woman should want children.’ After a moment or two, she said, ‘Mind you, I sometimes wonder how we managed to bring up our three, seeing as how my Reg only gets a railway fireman’s pay. Of course, he’ll get a bit more if he can get upgraded to driver.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea where Mr Roper worked, Mrs Timms?’ asked Hardcastle, loath though he was to interrupt the charlady’s flow in case a gem of information was missed. ‘And was that the real cause of their arguments, that and his wife’s desire to have children?’

  ‘It was that. Mind you, she hadn’t got any room to talk. She wasn’t above entertaining gentlemen friends when her husband was at work.’

  ‘Did you ever see any of these people, Mrs Timms?’

  ‘No, but you can always tell. Cigar butts in the ashtrays. Brandy glasses, but herself didn’t drink brandy.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Timms,’ said Hardcastle. He had seen the report that DC Dyer had submitted before going off duty the previous evening, a copy of which DS Bradley had brought with him, and which Hardcastle had scanned before he and Bradley had left for the Ropers’ house. Included in that report was Major Curtis’s account of his failure to seduce Helen Roper. It was clear from Timms that she had indeed had male guests visiting the house in her husband’s absence, but the true nature of their visits remained unclear. Were they totally innocent? On the other hand, it was possible that the major was lying. ‘You’ve certainly given us something to think about. We also found some prints at the house that don’t belong to the Ropers, so we must eliminate all innocent visitors to the house from our enquiries. May we take yours now, and your address, in case we need to talk to you again?’