Hardcastle's Soldiers (28 page)

‘Do you have an application, Mr Hardcastle?' queried the magistrate.

‘I respectfully ask for a remand in custody, Your Worship.'

The magistrate glanced at his register once more, and made an entry. ‘Very well, Mr Hardcastle. Remanded in custody to Tuesday the seventh of August,' he said. ‘Next.'

As Nash was taken down, and Hardcastle left the courtroom, a cheeky young prostitute – her breasts almost popping out of the top of her provocative dress – entered the dock, and blew an insolent kiss to the magistrate.

Hardcastle walked out to the echoing entrance hall of the court. There was a low hubbub of conversation among the people there, but Reginald Nash was sitting silent and alone on one of the benches, his head bowed, and his hands linked loosely between his knees.

‘If you care to come with me, Mr Nash, you can have a word with your son.'

‘Thank you, Inspector.' Nash followed the DDI into the dank cell passage that ran alongside Number One Court.

The miserable figure of Adrian Nash was seated in the holding cell at the end of the passageway near the gaoler's office. Dressed in an ill-fitting suit, he no longer appeared the suave, dashing officer who had wined and dined ungrateful showgirls during his forays into London with his brother officers.

‘Adrian, what the hell have you done?' Reginald Nash's face clearly showed his torment. ‘Is this true?'

‘No, Pa, I never did these things, not like they're saying I did,' said the younger Nash, but the expression on his face belied his reply. And it was clear that he was close to tears.

‘D'you mean the police are making it all up?' Reginald Nash shot a sideways glance of censure at Hardcastle.

‘It was all an accident,' blurted out Adrian. ‘I never meant to kill either of them. It just sort of happened.'

But it was obvious, in the face of the evidence that had been expounded by Hardcastle on his previous meeting with Reginald Nash, that Adrian's father had come to the reluctant conclusion that his son had indeed committed the terrible murders with which he had been charged, with – to use the legal term – malice aforethought.

‘You had everything, son. You'd even got a commission in the army. Why?' Adrian's father shook his head in disbelief and despair, as if asking himself where he had gone wrong in bringing up his only son. ‘Why did you do these terrible things?'

‘I'd got into debt, Pa. Two hundred pounds. I needed the money.'

‘
Two hundred pounds?
' Reginald Nash was shocked, as indeed Hardcastle had been earlier, at the enormity of his son's indebtedness. ‘You could've come to me, son. I'd've worked something out. You didn't have to kill people for it.' But even as he said it, he realized that there would have been no chance of him amassing so large a sum of money. Not on his pay as a water board engineer.

‘Anyway, I couldn't go to the Front, Pa,' muttered Adrian, adding another untenable excuse for his conduct.

‘But you weren't going to the Front, my boy. You were going to Boulogne. That's what you said the day we saw you off at Waterloo. You'd've been safe there, surely? I don't know much about the war, but I do know that Boulogne's quite a way behind the lines.'

‘Yes, but that wouldn't have lasted long, would it? I'd have had to take supplies right up to the front line. That's what officers are for. A lot of our people have been killed doing that. I just couldn't face it.'

‘Well, it's no excuse for committing murder,' said Reginald Nash sharply, his tone of voice indicating that he had finally abandoned his son. ‘All you've done is to bring disgrace on your family. Your mother's quite distraught. We're going to have to move house because of the shame of it all. Probably change our names, too.' Following that announcement, which had more to do with his own reputation than with Adrian's plight, he turned to Hardcastle. ‘I'm ready to leave, Inspector.'

The DDI escorted Reginald Nash to the front door of the court.

‘What will happen to him, Inspector?'

‘He'll hang,' said Hardcastle bluntly. ‘And if he don't, the army will shoot him at dawn for cowardice.'

Reginald Nash said nothing, just shook his head. With that he stepped out into the July sunshine, and with head bowed, walked slowly down Bow Street towards the Strand, a broken man.

Hardcastle and Marriott were back at Cannon Row by eleven o'clock.

The DDI always pretended that he was unfamiliar with the telephone, and frequently described it as an invention of the devil that would not last. However, on this occasion, using his own instrument he quickly had the operator connect him to the DDI of V Division at Wandsworth.

‘Arthur, it's Ernest Hardcastle on A.'

‘What can I do for you, Ernie?' asked Fitnam, somewhat wearily.

‘It's rather a case of what I've done for you, Arthur. I had a young army officer called Adrian Nash up at Bow Street this morning charged with murder.'

‘Congratulations, Ernie,' said Fitnam, ‘but what's that got to do with me?'

‘Because I charged him with the murder of Herbert Somers at Victoria Station, and I also charged him with the murder of Ivy Huggins on your toby, Arthur. So I suggest you start putting your case together. And get the mothballs out of your Old Bailey suit, ready for an appearance at the Central Criminal Court. You do know where the Old Bailey is, don't you, Arthur?' Hardcastle added impishly. ‘If not I'll send you a map.'

‘How the hell did you manage that, Ernie?' Fitnam's voice suddenly took on a brighter note.

‘Good old-fashioned police work, Arthur. I talked to him like a Dutch uncle, and he confessed. We do a lot of that up here in the centre of the great Metropolis.'

‘Well, I'm very grateful,' said Fitnam.

‘I'm pleased to hear it, Arthur. And I reckon your gratitude would be best shown by a bottle of Scotch. I'm rather partial to Johnny Walker's Black Label. It'll only set you back about five shillings.'

‘It's as good as done, Ernie,' said Fitnam who, after replacing the receiver, let out a loud whoop of delight, much to the astonishment of the detectives in the next office.

Hardcastle next decided to pay a visit to Colonel Frobisher, the assistant provost marshal.

‘Good morning to you, Inspector,' said Frobisher. ‘I'm glad you've dropped in. I've got some more news for you. Second Lieutenant Bertram Morrish has finally turned up at 233 Supply Company ASC in Fort William. It seems he was mistakenly sent to 232 Supply in Taunton, Somerset. They tried to hold on to him, but eventually the records office made sure he went to the right place. But these things happen. However, I've no news yet of Adrian Nash who should've gone to 143 Mechanical Transport Company in Boulogne.'

‘Ah, but I have, Colonel,' said Hardcastle. ‘Which is why I'm here. I thought I'd let you know that I've captured him for you.'

Frobisher looked up with an amused smile on his face. ‘So you've found him, have you? And how did that come about?'

‘He made the mistake of loosing off a few rounds at some of my policemen in Francis Street last Friday night. He was promptly arrested, and I've got him locked up in Brixton police station charged with two counts of murder.'

‘Have you, by Jove? Did he kill some of your policemen, then?' Frobisher had read an account of the Francis Street incident in
The Times
, but no mention had been made of fatalities.

‘No, he was arrested without anyone being hurt. And while I'm at it, I'd like to mention the part played in the siege by Colour-Sergeant Cecil Berryman of the Middlesex Regiment who volunteered to resolve the matter for us.'

‘What did he do?'

‘He was instrumental in wounding our man with a carefully aimed rifle shot, thereby enabling police to make an arrest. I thought he deserved some sort of commendation.'

‘I think the less said about that the better, Inspector. I gather from what you say, that he acted without authority from a superior officer. An army officer, I mean.'

‘Police can call on anyone to assist them in arresting a felon, Colonel,' said Hardcastle.

‘Yes, that's as maybe, but I still think it's best forgotten. You see there'll be all sorts of questions asked, like where did he get the ammunition from, and how he is to account for it. Once the military machine gets going on that sort of thing, Mr Hardcastle, it's very difficult to stop it.' Frobisher shook his head apologetically. ‘Your people aren't going to do anything silly, like submitting official reports, are they?'

‘I'll make sure they don't, Colonel. Wouldn't want to get Berryman into any trouble.' Hardcastle was somewhat surprised at the colonel's reaction. The colour-sergeant had done a first-class job in assisting the police, but now the army did not want to know because of some pettifogging regulation. In that respect the army was not unlike the police force, and if his part in the incident became known, it was possible that Berryman could finish up being court-martialled for his actions.

‘Now, to return to Second Lieutenant Nash. Who exactly is he charged with murdering?' asked the APM.

‘I've charged him with murdering Herbert Somers, the cashier at the Victoria Station exchange booth that you know about, and, on behalf of the DDI on V Division, with the murder of a prostitute called Ivy Huggins at Kingston upon Thames.'

‘Good grief!' exclaimed Frobisher. ‘This war has produced some unlikely murderers, Inspector. I suppose you've no idea when he'll be appearing in court.' The APM pulled a writing pad across his desk ready to make a few notes.

‘I took him before the Bow Street magistrate this morning and got an eight-day lay down.'

‘A what?' Frobisher looked up. Despite being a senior army policeman, he still had trouble with some of Hardcastle's jargon.

‘A remand in custody for eight days, Colonel,' volunteered Marriott.

‘I see.' Frobisher made a further note, and leaned back in his chair. ‘D'you think there's any doubt about his guilt, Inspector?'

‘Certainly not,' said Hardcastle firmly. ‘He's as guilty as hell.'

‘I thought you'd say that.' Frobisher knew Hardcastle well, and knew that he rarely made mistakes. ‘Once he's convicted, I'll arrange to have him cashiered.'

‘What's the point of that?' asked Hardcastle, once again bemused by the army's slavish adherence to
King's Regulations
. ‘He's going down.'

‘Keeps it all neat and tidy, Mr Hardcastle,' said Frobisher.

As the two detectives were returning to Cannon Row Police Station, Hardcastle saw a barrel organ being played near the Red Lion pub on the corner of Derby Gate.

‘Good God, Marriott!' exclaimed Hardcastle loudly. ‘A barrel organ in Whitehall. I've never seen such a thing. Whatever next?' But as he drew closer, he saw that the organ was in the charge of a one-legged man with a row of medals who was leaning on a crutch. He was operating the organ with his free hand. A small monkey wearing a red waistcoat sat atop the organ.

Hardcastle paused, and tossed a sixpence into the man's cap that was on the pavement.

‘Bless you, guv'nor.' The organ grinder touched his forehead with a calloused finger. The monkey bared its teeth at Hardcastle.

Having informed the army of what had happened to Nash, in itself a cause of great self-satisfaction, Hardcastle decided that it was time to interview Jack Utting again.

Once again in the gloomy interview room at the police station, the DDI settled himself in a chair opposite the unfortunate Utting. DS Marriott sat beside him, ready to take notes. But, in the event, there were not many notes to be taken.

‘When I last spoke to you, Utting, you told me that you were instrumental in giving Adrian Nash information about Lieutenant Mansfield's uniform, information you'd obtained from your wife. You also told Nash about the routine at the money-changing kiosk at Victoria Station that he intended to rob. For your assistance in this matter you received the princely sum of fifty pounds from the proceeds of the robbery and murder.'

‘But I didn't know he was going to kill Bert Somers,' responded Utting in anguished tones.

‘You knew he intended to rob Somers, and you aided and abetted him. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that you conspired with him.' Hardcastle stood up. ‘Consequently, I shall charge you with conspiracy to commit murder, Utting.'

‘But I didn't know he was going to kill Bert Somers,' implored Utting, now terrified that, like Nash, he too could soon have an appointment with the hangman.

‘Bit late to think about that now, my lad,' said Hardcastle brutally. ‘Somers was murdered, and that's it and all about it. You'll hang alongside your sister's fiancé.'

The trial of Adrian Nash and Jack Utting took place at the Central Criminal Court at Old Bailey some months later amid the full panoply of the law.

‘The Director of Public Prosecutions got cold feet over Utting, Marriott,' whispered Hardcastle, as he, his sergeant, and DDI Fitnam sat down in the entrance hall outside the four courts that the building contained. As witnesses they were not allowed in court until their turn came to give evidence.

‘How so, sir?'

‘He was happy to charge him with conspiracy to rob, but didn't think we'd got enough to put him on the sheet for conspiracy to murder. He said that Utting only agreed to rob, not to murder. Personally I'd've given it a run, but there we are.'

‘But couldn't we have put him up for conspiracy to murder anyway, sir?'

Hardcastle sighed. ‘You should know by now, Marriott, that the DPP has to approve murder cases, and without that approval there ain't a case. And he's not indicting Nash with robbery, or with attempting to murder PC Wallis. He said there was no point, and I agree with him.'