Hardcastle's Obsession (17 page)

Quinn placed the card in the centre of his desk and spent a few moments studying it. ‘Interesting, but all rather academic now, Mr Hardcastle,’ he said. ‘Late on Wednesday evening, I received information from the Special Branch in Dublin that your Seamus Riley was among those killed when the General Post Office in O’Connell Street was shelled by the British. That, of course, is absolute proof that Riley was a republican activist. I would have let you know sooner, but I was rather busy all day yesterday.’

‘I see, sir. Thank you,’ said Hardcastle stiffly. He was furious that his trip to Woolwich to interview Agnes Eales had been unnecessary, and had wasted time that could usefully have been employed searching for Annie Kelly’s real killer. ‘Do you wish to keep that, sir?’ He waved a hand at the membership card.

‘Yes indeed, Mr Hardcastle. I’ll have it filed away. We never know when such snippets of information might come in useful. Good day to you, Mr Hardcastle.’

Hardcastle nodded briefly and left the office. He concluded, not for the first time, that Special Branch filed everything, whether it was useful or not.

‘Marriott,’ shouted Hardcastle, as he reached the top of the stairs.

‘Yes, sir?’ responded Marriott, as he followed Hardcastle into his office.

‘A complete waste of time,’ muttered Hardcastle. He was still fuming that Quinn had not seen fit to inform him of Riley’s death as soon as he received it. It would have been a matter of simplicity to send one of his officers across to Hardcastle to tell him what had been learned. But he had long ago discovered that such was the secrecy that surrounded the activities of Special Branch that Quinn would not share information with anyone who did not need to know it. And that included his own detectives.

‘What did Mr Quinn have to say, then, sir?’

‘Seamus Riley’s dead, Marriott. Far from joining the Royal Irish Fusiliers, he was killed when the British Army shelled the GPO in O’Connell Street. Unfortunately, Mr Quinn was unable to tell us this before we went to Woolwich to see Mrs Eales.’ Infuriated though he was at Superintendent Quinn’s delay in passing on this information, Hardcastle would never, under any circumstances, criticize a senior officer to a subordinate one. ‘So, now we’ll have to start afresh, but I’m still of the opinion that Sir Royston Naylor’s our man.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott. It seemed that there was no way to steer the DDI away from his determination that Naylor was Annie Kelly’s killer.

The DPP had happily ceded the case of Lieutenant Colonel Millard to the army, having no desire to prosecute a case involving a senior serving officer. For its part, the army preferred to avoid the publicity that would surround an Old Bailey trial, but, as it happened, the trial of Millard did attract unwelcome and widespread newspaper interest. As a result of those dual decisions the army acted with an uncharacteristic swiftness and a general court martial was convened within the week.

On Monday the sixteenth of October, Hardcastle, DS Wood, DC Catto and Frobisher arrived at the Duke of York’s Headquarters in Kings Road, Chelsea, at ten o’clock.

An impressive court had been assembled in one of the lecture rooms of the headquarters. The president, a brigadier-general, was flanked by a judge-advocate in wig and gown, a colonel of the General Staff, and two lieutenant colonels, one from the South Wales Borderers, the other from the Machine Gun Corps. These officers, wearing medals and swords, were seated behind an ordinary table, their highly polished field boots visible beneath it. On the blanket-covered table were carafes of water and glasses, and two red leather-covered books:
King’s
Regulations
and the
Manual of Military Law
.

Deprived of his Sam Browne and sword, Millard entered the courtroom accompanied by his defending officer, Lieutenant Colonel Rollo Prentice, a brother artilleryman. Both faced the court and saluted in unison. Already present at a table on the other side of the room were Lieutenant Colonel Rupert Cavendish the prosecuting officer, and his assistant, a young major.

The members of the court were sworn in, and the judge-advocate read the charge.

‘How say you, Colonel? Guilty or not guilty?’

‘Guilty, sir,’ replied Millard in a strong voice. He had been advised that it would be in his best interests not to waste the court’s time by contesting the charge.

‘May we have the facts, Colonel Cavendish?’ said the president.

The members of the court listened carefully as the prosecuting officer gave the details of Millard’s regrettable behaviour.

‘How many rounds did the accused fire, Colonel?’ asked the president.

‘One, sir,’ said Cavendish.

‘And no one was hit?’

‘No, sir.’

The president turned to the defending officer. ‘Do you wish to make a plea in mitigation, Colonel?’

Prentice stood up, hitched up his sword, and ran a thumb down the inside of his Sam Browne cross belt. ‘Sir, may it please the court, Colonel Millard has been in command of a field artillery brigade that formed a part of the 46th Division engaged in the Somme offensive. I do not have to emphasize the strain such a battle places upon commanders. On Sunday the eighth of October, Colonel Millard left France for a well-deserved seven-day furlough and arrived at his home in Cadogan Place at about seven o’clock on the following day. There he found that his wife was in bed with a man. Not unnaturally, discovering his wife in such a compromising situation inflamed Colonel Millard’s temper. He chased the man out of the house, and fired a round over his head. Colonel Millard assures me that he had no intention of wounding the man, but merely to frighten him. He now bitterly regrets his impetuous action and realizes that it was a foolish thing to do.’

‘
Flagrante delicto
, as one might say,’ commented the president, an amused smile playing around his lips.

‘Exactly so, sir.’

‘Thank you, Colonel Prentice.’ The brigadier-general toyed briefly with a sheet of paper. ‘Has the man that Colonel Millard chased from the house been identified?’ He knew that it was not uncommon for a man like Millard to return home from active service to discover that his wife had been unfaithful. Although it was not necessary for the court to have this information, the president saw no reason to shield the man who had cuckolded the accused. He knew that the name, if given in open court, would be entered in the record of the proceedings, and doubtless would find its way into the pages of the more scurrilous national press.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Prentice. ‘I am informed that he is Sir Royston Naylor, the owner of a company that manufactures military uniforms.’

‘Sir Royston Naylor, you say?’ The president wrote down the name and repeated it loudly, not wanting there to be any risk of it being unheard by members of the press.

‘That is correct, sir,’ said Prentice.

‘Very well,’ said the president. ‘The court will now withdraw to consider sentence.’

Frobisher stood up and turned to the still seated Hardcastle. ‘That means that
we
withdraw, Inspector,’ he whispered. ‘It’s different from the civilian practice. In courts martial it happens the other way round. The members stay where they are, and we are the ones who go out.’

‘Damned funny business,’ muttered Hardcastle, yet again bemused by the practices of the military, and struggled to his feet.

Once in the draughty corridor, along with everyone else who had been in court, Hardcastle lit his pipe.

‘How come that a lieutenant colonel is in command of a brigade, Colonel? Shouldn’t that be a brigadier-general?’

‘Not in the artillery, Inspector. An artillery brigade is what other regiments call a battalion.’

‘I see. What happens now, Colonel?’ asked Hardcastle, sorry that he had raised the question. He had decided, some time ago, that he would never understand the military.

‘The court will decide what to do with Millard, Inspector, and then it’s all over subject to confirmation by the general officer commanding,’ said Frobisher. ‘In the meantime, the members will be enjoying a cup of coffee while we’re left out here to freeze.’

Sure enough a mess steward appeared bearing a huge tray of coffee, and was conducted into the courtroom by the court orderly, an elderly sergeant whose medals jangled irritatingly every time he moved.

A full forty minutes elapsed before the court reconvened, and the unfortunates in the cold corridor were allowed back. Millard and his escort were marched in by the court orderly.

‘Colonel Millard, the court has considered your conduct with the utmost care, and has taken note of the defending officer’s plea in mitigation,’ began the president. ‘However, whereas your anguish at discovering your wife with another man can be fully understood, it is still no excuse for recklessly discharging a firearm. As an officer, and a senior one at that, such conduct must be marked with condign punishment. You will, therefore, be reduced in rank to major with seniority effective from the date of your original promotion to major, subject to confirmation. March out.’

‘Bit harsh, I thought,’ said Frobisher, as he, Hardcastle, Wood and Catto made their way out to Kings Road. ‘Won’t do his career any good.’

‘Harsh?’ echoed Hardcastle. ‘An Old Bailey judge would probably have sent him to prison,’ he said. ‘And then his career would have been finished.’

‘Maybe so,’ admitted Frobisher. ‘However, considering the losses we’re sustaining, Millard will soon be back up to half-colonel, but he can forget about any promotion beyond that.’

‘Will he go back to Flanders?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘I shouldn’t think so, Inspector. He’ll be sent to the RFA depot at Woolwich pending a posting to another unit. He’ll probably finish the war as an instructor somewhere in this country.’

‘Done himself a favour then,’ murmured Hardcastle.

Hardcastle arrived early on the Tuesday morning and immediately sent for Marriott.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Are all the detectives in, Marriott?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Send them down to that newsvendor by Westminster Underground station to buy these papers.’ Hardcastle handed Marriott a list.

‘Very good, sir.’ Marriott took the list. ‘Will you be paying for them, sir?’ he asked.

‘Certainly not, Marriott. They can have them back once I’ve done with them.’

Fifteen minutes later, Marriott returned with an armful of Tuesday’s national dailies.

As the president of the court martial had anticipated, they carried a full account of the previous day’s proceedings at the Duke of York’s headquarters. And more.

Many of them had acquired a photograph of Sir Royston Naylor, one of which showed him entering his Rolls Royce outside his offices in Vauxhall Bridge Road. With typical Fleet Street doggedness, some reporters had tracked down Lady Sarah Millard and included details of the Millards’ house in Cadogan Place together with a photograph. One organ of the yellow press had erroneously linked Earl Rankin’s family lineage with that of the Royal Family.

Another paper had published a photograph of Kingsley Hall in Buckinghamshire. The caption boldly stated that ‘poor’ Lady Naylor lived there alone ‘while her adulterous husband was in bed with a hero’s wife’.

‘That lot should please Sir Royston, Marriott,’ chuckled Hardcastle, pushing the pile of newspapers aside. ‘Just think what they’ll have to say when the Millards’ divorce case comes up.’

A constable appeared in the doorway of the DDI’s office.

‘There’s a Sir Royston Naylor downstairs, sir. He wishes to see you.’

‘Well, he needn’t think he can come bowling in here to see me whenever he feels like it, millionaire or not,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I wonder what he wants.’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ said the PC, ‘but he seemed fair upset about something.’

Hardcastle laughed. ‘I’ll bet he is.’ He was tempted to instruct the station officer to deal with Naylor, but decided that it would be amusing to see what he had to say. ‘Show him up, lad.’

When Naylor entered the office, almost apoplectic with rage, he was clutching a copy of the
Daily Herald
.

‘I want to know the meaning of this, Inspector,’ he blustered, brandishing the newspaper. ‘This is libellous. How could you possibly allow them to print this sort of stuff about me?’

‘Are you suggesting that the release of information about your philandering is a contravention of the Defence of the Realm Act, Sir Royston?’ asked Hardcastle mildly. ‘I don’t see that it damages the war effort. If it had, the censor would have barred it. Apart from anything else, I have no control over what the newspapers publish. I’m only a simple policeman.’ He waved a hand at the paper Naylor was holding. ‘What you have there is a report of a court martial, Sir Royston, and legitimate speculation resulting from it. It’s nothing to do with me, so I suggest you speak to the army.’

‘I’m going to sue this Millard,’ spluttered Naylor. ‘He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.’

‘I thought his intention was to cite you, Sir Royston,’ suggested Marriott, taking his lead from Hardcastle, ‘when he starts proceedings to divorce his wife.’

‘But the woman was willing,’ protested Naylor, as though her readiness to embark upon an affair exonerated him from any liability in the matter.

‘Makes no difference,’ said Hardcastle, by now tiring of the industrialist’s posturing. ‘And if you’d be so good as to stop wasting my time, I’ve a murder to solve. Good day to you.’

‘You’ve not heard the last of this,’ shouted Naylor, and collided with a chair in his hurry to get out of Hardcastle’s office.

‘By the time I get to hear of all the things I’ve not heard the last of, Marriott, it’ll take about a year to listen to them all,’ said Hardcastle, as Naylor could be heard stomping down the stairs.

TWELVE

‘
I
think we’ll pay Lady Sarah Millard a visit, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, once Naylor had left his office.