Hardcastle's Obsession (26 page)

‘I dare say you gentlemen could do with a wet while we’re waiting.’ Cordell took off his striped duty armlet and slipped it into his pocket. ‘If we go in the saloon bar, we’ll have a good view of the road outside.’ He took off his helmet and ducked through the low doorway of the inn.

‘Good day, Jack.’ The landlord was a huge man in a red waistcoat with brass buttons, his loss of hair compensated by bushy black sideburns. As a preamble to serving his customers, he wiped the top of the bar with a cloth.

‘Good day to you, Josh. Three pints of your best, if you please.’

After DS Wood had insisted on paying for the beer, the two policemen and Jackson found a table by the window, and settled themselves with their tankards of ale.

They did not have long to wait. Twenty minutes later, and after another round of beer, they were treated to the sight of Lady Naylor on horseback stopping outside the inn. Attired as usual in men’s riding breeches, and a woollen sweater, the hatless Lady Naylor dismounted, tethered her horse to a lamp post, and entered the general store.

‘That’s Her Ladyship,’ said Cordell.

‘Well, Bert, have you seen her before?’ asked Wood.

‘I should say I have,’ said Jackson adamantly. ‘She was always calling at Washbourne Street. Afore it was bombed, like.’

‘What?’ Wood was unable to conceal his astonishment. ‘What on earth was she doing there?’

‘She reckoned as how she was the landlord’s agent come to inspect the property and collect the rent.’

‘Well, who’s the landlord?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Jackson.

‘A pound to a pinch of snuff it’s Sir Royston Naylor,’ muttered Wood.

‘Any luck?’ asked Marriott, when the trio returned to the police house.

Wood repeated what Jackson had told him, but Marriott gave the impression of being uninterested in this piece of information. He had no wish to attach any importance to Jackson’s revelation in the ex-soldier’s presence.

‘I’ve no doubt there’s a reasonable explanation,’ said Marriott, ‘but we’ll get back to London and have a word with the guv’nor, although I doubt he’ll be much interested.’ He turned to Cordell. ‘Thanks for your help, Jack. I think we’ll be getting on our way.’

‘If there’s anything else I can help you with, you know where I am, Sergeant,’ said Cordell.

Marriott, Wood and Jackson left the police house and strolled towards the centre of the village.

‘I think we’ll have a pint and a sandwich at the pub, and then find ourselves a train back to the Smoke,’ said Marriott.

SEVENTEEN

‘
W
ell?’ barked Hardcastle, when the two sergeants presented themselves in his office.

‘What you might call a profitable day, sir,’ said Marriott, and went on to relate what they had gleaned from their visit to Kingsley.

‘And this here cab driver Charlton was sure that he collected Lady Naylor from Wendover railway station on the nights of the two murders, is he?’

‘I’d no doubt that he was telling the truth, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘I got the impression that Jack Cordell frightened the life out of him.’

‘Quite right and proper,’ commented Hardcastle. ‘Sounds like a good policeman, and him only a country copper, too.’

Marriott said nothing, for fear of setting Hardcastle off on one of his critical comments about provincial police forces.

‘So, who owned this Washbourne Street house, Marriott? Before Fritz knocked it down, that is,’ continued Hardcastle.

‘I’ve already sent Catto to City Hall in Charing Cross Road to find out, sir,’ said Marriott, having anticipated that that would be Hardcastle’s next question.

‘Well, where is he?’ As ever Hardcastle was impatient to get on with the investigation. ‘That sort of enquiry doesn’t take all day.’

‘I’ll see if he’s back yet, sir.’ Marriott crossed the corridor to the detectives’ office, returning moments later with Catto.

‘Well, Catto, solved this problem for me, have you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Catto, for once confident that he had the answer that the DDI was expecting. ‘The owner of one-forty-three Washbourne Street is Sir Royston Naylor of Grosvenor Gardens.’

‘Hah!’ Hardcastle smote the top of his desk with the flat of his hand. ‘I think we’re getting somewhere at last, Marriott.’

‘But there’s more, sir,’ said Catto.

‘More? I hope you haven’t been overdoing it, Catto. I don’t want to see your name appearing in
Police Orders
as discharged worn out.’

Catto risked a grin at Hardcastle’s little joke. ‘While I was at City Hall I found out that Sir Royston Naylor owns two other properties in Washbourne Street. Numbers one-forty to one-forty-two on the opposite side of the road.’

‘Well done, lad,’ said Hardcastle, once again breaking his rule about not commending junior officers.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Catto was astonished at receiving a word of praise from the DDI.

‘All right, Catto, don’t stand there grinning like a Cheshire cat. I’m sure you’ve got work to do.’

‘What do we do next, sir?’ asked Marriott, once the delighted Catto had departed. ‘Arrest Lady Naylor?’

‘No, Marriott, we arrest ’em both.’ Hardcastle rubbed his hands together. ‘But we’ve got to arrange it so that we catch the pair of ’em at the same time.’ He lapsed into silence, pondering the problem. ‘An observation,’ he said finally.

‘Where, sir? In London or at Kingsley?’

‘In London, Marriott. I’m not wasting time sending Wood down there just to follow the damned woman back here when she decides to come up and collect the rent. And I don’t want her nicked on a county constabulary’s patch; it makes for complications.’ Hardcastle turned to DS Wood. ‘Find out from your mate Albert Jackson which day of the week Her Ladyship comes up to collect the rents, Wood.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard the like of it: a titled woman going about collecting rents,’ he said. ‘I suppose she don’t trust a rent collector in case he pockets some of the takings. Frightened of the Zeppelins, be damned. The only thing she’s frightened of is that someone might not pay up.’

‘Jackson told Wood that Lady Naylor usually comes up to London of a Friday evening, sir,’ said Marriott on Wednesday morning. ‘He reckons that she likes to get there after the menfolk have been paid, but before they have time to piss their wages up the wall of a local boozer.’

‘Seems there’s some advantage after all for Sir Royston having got wed to a factory wench, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘She knows first-hand how the working classes live, being one of ’em, so to speak.’

‘I’ll set up an observation for Friday evening, then, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘But what shall we do about Sir Royston?’

‘Get Wood to organize the observation, and he can have the pleasure of arresting Lady Naylor,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I want you with me because I’m going to collar Naylor the minute he sets foot outside his office on Friday evening. With any luck we’ll have him in the nick before the arrival of Her Ladyship. Be a nice surprise for him.’ He emitted a self-satisfied chuckle. ‘I do believe things are coming together, Marriott.’

By a lucky coincidence both arrests occurred at about the same time.

At half past five on the Friday evening, Hardcastle and Marriott were waiting in a cab in Vauxhall Bridge Road opposite the offices of Naylor Clothing Ltd. Naylor’s Rolls Royce arrived at ten minutes to six precisely, and five minutes later Darby, the commissionaire, appeared in the doorway and signalled to Sam, Sir Royston’s chauffeur. The chauffeur got out and stood by the passenger door, ready to open it the moment Naylor appeared.

‘As usual, he’ll be out at six on the dot, Marriott,’ commented Hardcastle. ‘I do like a man of habit.’ Leaping from the cab and instructing the driver to wait, he swiftly crossed the road followed by Marriott.

Naylor looked up in surprise to be confronted by the DDI and Marriott. ‘What the hell d’you want this time, Inspector? I thought I told you—’

‘Royston Naylor, I’m arresting you on suspicion of being involved in the murders of Annie Kelly and Lady Sarah Millard,’ said Hardcastle, cutting across the manufacturer’s protest.

Naylor went red in the face, dropped his walking stick and waved his hands about. ‘What on earth are you talking about? Have you taken leave of your senses, man?’

Hardcastle took hold of Naylor’s arm as a token of his arrest and led him across the road to the waiting taxi.

Pausing briefly to suggest to Naylor’s chauffeur that he was unlikely to be needed this evening, and to hand him the discarded walking stick, Marriott joined Hardcastle and Naylor in the taxi.

‘Scotland Yard, cabbie.’ Hardcastle turned to Naylor. ‘Tell ’em Cannon Row, Sir Royston,’ he said jovially, ‘and half the time you finish up at Cannon Street in the City.’

‘This is a damned outrage,’ spluttered Naylor.

DS Wood and DC Catto loitered near 140 Washbourne Street which ran parallel with Vauxhall Bridge Road. At about the time that Naylor was arriving at Cannon Row police station, Lady Naylor alighted from a taxi, and made to enter the house.

‘Hilda, Lady Naylor,’ said Wood, raising his hat as he stepped into the woman’s path, ‘we’re police officers, and I’m arresting you on suspicion of being involved in the murders of Annie Kelly and Lady Sarah Millard.’

‘Have you gone raving mad?’ The woman who demanded that she be called Lady Henrietta stared at Wood, apparently unfazed by his awesome statement.

‘I shall now take you to Cannon Row police station, madam.’

‘My lady,’ said Hilda Naylor imperiously. ‘I’m addressed as my lady.’

‘Please yourself,’ said Wood, and hailed a cab.

‘Splendid!’ exclaimed Hardcastle, when Wood informed him of the arrest of Lady Naylor.

‘Her Ladyship’s in cell number three, and Sir Royston’s in the one next door to it, sir,’ said Marriott.

‘Ask Mrs Cartwright to see me, Wood.’ Hardcastle reached for his pipe and began to fill it.

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ asked the station matron as she stepped into the DDI’s office a few moments later.

‘There’s a prisoner in number three cell, Mrs Cartwright, name of Lady Naylor.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I want her thoroughly searched. Sergeant Marriott will wait outside the cell door and take possession of anything you find.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Mrs Cartwright.

Bertha Cartwright was far more formidable a woman than appeared to be the case when she was taking the DDI his tea. On those occasions she always seemed to be a mumsy sort of woman, concerned about the welfare of her soldier son and little else.

‘On your feet,’ she bellowed, as she strode into the cell.

‘How dare you shout at me like that,’ shrieked Lady Naylor, ‘and, I’ll have you know, I’m addressed as my lady.’

‘I don’t care if you’re the Queen of Sheba, but all the while you’re locked up here, I’ll address you anyway I like, dearie. Now then, get that frock off.’

‘I’ll do no such thing, you fat cow.’

Mrs Cartwright stepped across the cell, and delivered a stinging blow to Lady Naylor’s face. ‘Do it. Now.’

There was no further argument, and within minutes Lady Naylor was standing naked and shivering in the cell while Bertha Cartwright examined her clothing.

‘I shall make a very strong complaint to the highest authority about you,’ said Hilda Naylor when the matron had finished, and had told the prisoner to get dressed again. ‘You clearly don’t know who you’re dealing with.’

Without another word, Mrs Cartwright left the cell. ‘Nothing, Mr Marriott,’ she said. ‘Has anyone been through her handbag?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Marriott. ‘I think the station officer put it straight into the prisoners’ property store.’

‘Better have a look, then, love,’ said the matron.

The station officer produced Lady Naylor’s handbag, and Mrs Cartwright emptied it on to the desk in the front office.

‘There’s a bunch of keys, a diary, some sort of account book, a lace-trimmed handkerchief, a pencil in a silver holder, and some visiting cards in a silver case.’ Mrs Cartwright identified each item as she moved it from one side of the table to the other. ‘Oh, and there’s a separate key here, Mr Marriott.’

‘I think Mr Hardcastle might be interested in that, Mrs Cartwright,’ said Marriott.

‘This is only thing that the matron found that might be of interest, sir,’ said Marriott.

Hardcastle took the key and examined it closely. ‘Was that the only key, Marriott?’

‘There was a bunch of keys, too, sir, but I suspect they’re for the Washbourne Street properties that Sir Royston owns.’

‘Get your coat and hat, Marriott.’ Hardcastle stood up. ‘We’re going to conduct a little test.’

It was half past eight when Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at Artillery Mansions.

Hardcastle knocked loudly on the caretaker’s door. ‘Mr Harris,’ he said, ‘has anyone called at Lady Sarah Millard’s apartment since I was last here?’

‘No, sir, no one,’ said Harris.

‘Not a Major Millard by any chance?’

‘No, sir, no one.’

‘Did you perhaps see a woman calling here on, say, Thursday the nineteenth of last month, or even early in the morning the next day?’

‘No, Inspector. Like I said when you found that poor lady’s body, I never saw anyone go up there.’

‘Very well,’ said Hardcastle, and he and Marriott made their way up to the first floor.

‘D’you think we’re in luck, sir?’ asked Marriott.

‘Any minute now and we’ll find out,’ said Hardcastle, and producing the key found in Lady Naylor’s handbag, he tried it in the lock. ‘Aha!’ he exclaimed as the door swung open. ‘You’re an educated chap, Marriott. What was it that Greek fellow said? Wasn’t he called Archie someone?’

‘Archimedes, sir, and eureka was what he said. It means I’ve found it.’

‘Exactly, Marriott.’ Hardcastle walked into the apartment and glanced around. ‘Well, no sense in hanging about here,’ he said. ‘We’ve got what we wanted, and I reckon Lady Naylor’s going to have a bit of a job explaining why she had that key in her possession.’