Hardcastle's Traitors (6 page)

Hardcastle and Marriott strode along Flood Street towards King's Road in search of a cab. ‘That there Sinclair Villiers seemed to make a bit of a meal out of deciding whether that scarf was his or not, Marriott,' said Hardcastle.

‘It certainly wouldn't have taken me that long, sir,' agreed Marriott. ‘But then I've only got one scarf and as Lorna knitted it for me, I'd've recognized it straight off.'

‘I'm just wondering whether that Villiers knows more than he's telling,' said Hardcastle, finally spotting a taxi.

‘You surely don't think he had anything to do with this murder, do you, sir?' Once again, Marriott was astounded at what he secretly called ‘one of the guv'nor's flights of fancy'.

‘You've known me long enough to know that I always keep my options open, Marriott,' said Hardcastle mysteriously. ‘I've known of a few toffs who've committed murder over the years.'

‘But the butler was adamant that he and Villiers were at home all night, sir.'

‘Of course he was, Marriott,' said Hardcastle. ‘Of course he was. Unless it was the butler what nicked Villiers's precious motor car. So far, all they've come up with is what you might call mutually compensating alibis.' He chuckled at what he thought was quite a clever turn of phrase.

On their return to Cannon Row police station, Hardcastle spent a few minutes in the front office examining the crime book. Satisfied that there was nothing to demand his immediate attention, he ascended the stairs to the detectives' office.

Pushing open the door, his gaze lighted on DC Catto.

‘What have you done about those enquiries I gave you and Watkins, Catto?'

‘We checked with the hospitals, sir. Westminster, Charing Cross, Saint Thomas', Saint George's—'

‘All right, all right, Catto, I know which they are. You checked them all within, say, a five-mile radius, I hope.'

‘Yes, sir.' Catto knew that for him to have done otherwise would have incurred the DDI's wrath. ‘There was no record of anyone attending after midnight on Friday with an injury like a cut hand.'

‘Did you try Putney hospital?'

‘Putney, sir? No, sir.' Catto was clearly puzzled by the DDI's question.

‘Why not? The car was found in Wandsworth.'

‘I'll get on it straight away, sir.'

‘What about jewellers and pawnbrokers?'

‘We checked all those on the list, sir, and nothing has been taken in yet.' Catto was alluding to the list that each police station held of all such establishments in its area. ‘Some of them won't open until tomorrow morning though.'

‘Well, I hope you'll be on their doorsteps waiting for them to turn up,' said Hardcastle, and returned to his office, leaving Catto wondering how he could be in more than one place at the same time.

‘Better send a message to surrounding stations, Marriott, asking for checks to be made in case our villains have been trying to fence their ill-gotten gains further afield.'

‘Very good, sir.'

‘And then, Marriott, I think we'll call it a day. There ain't much we can do until tomorrow morning. My regards to Mrs Marriott.'

‘Thank you, sir, and mine to Mrs H.'

The clattering of the letter box signalled the arrival of the morning newspaper. Hardcastle stood up from the kitchen table and walked through to the hall. Picking up the
Daily Mail
, he began scanning the headlines as he returned to start his breakfast.

‘Anything in the paper, Ernie?' Alice posed the same question every morning. She placed a plate of eggs, bacon, a sausage and fried bread in front of her husband, and poured him a second cup of tea. It was the breakfast that Hardcastle consumed every morning and without which he claimed he could not face a day's work.

He never enquired how his wife was able to produce such a hearty breakfast every day despite the shortages brought on by the war; he just assumed that the grocer was generous because Hardcastle was a senior police officer.

‘It says here that last Thursday the P&O liner SS
Persia
was torpedoed in the Mediterranean.' Hardcastle propped the newspaper against a tomato ketchup bottle. ‘Over three hundred passengers were drowned, including two Americans. And one of them was a diplomat. It's things like that that'll bring the Americans into this war, my girl, you mark my words.'

‘It's shocking what the war is doing,' said Alice, sitting down opposite her husband. ‘People murdering people all the time.'

‘I know,' said Hardcastle. ‘I'm in the trade.'

‘You know what I'm talking about, Ernest,' responded his wife. She only ever called him by his full name by way of reproof or in moments of exasperation.

‘And that's not all,' continued Hardcastle between mouthfuls, as his eye lighted upon another item. ‘It seems that on the same day HMS
Natal
blew up in Cromarty harbour in the North Sea. Over three hundred killed. It says here that there was a children's party going on and the captain, a man called Eric Back, and his wife and all the children were killed.'

Alice Hardcastle put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, those poor children,' she said. ‘The Germans have got a lot to answer for, Ernie.'

‘According to the paper, the Admiralty are saying it was an accidental explosion.' Hardcastle looked at his wife. ‘And if you believe that, you'll believe anything,' he said. ‘That'll be the censor's doing, saying that. They don't want to alarm people, you see, my girl.' He folded the newspaper and stood up. ‘But the people of this country aren't stupid. They know what's going on, and they'll have worked out that somehow or other a German submarine got right into Cromarty harbour.'

After what seemed an interminable wait, Hardcastle eventually caught a crowded tram, and arrived at his office at half past eight.

‘Good morning, sir,' said Marriott, as he followed Hardcastle into the DDI's office.

‘I've decided that we'll pay a visit to Mrs Villiers,' said Hardcastle, without returning his sergeant's greeting, but Marriott was accustomed to the DDI ignoring the common courtesies.

‘What do we hope to learn from her, sir?' Once again, Marriott was baffled by the course of action the DDI was suggesting. But he knew Hardcastle well enough to know that he frequently embarked on a seemingly pointless enquiry only to see it bear fruit.

‘Won't know till we ask,' said Hardcastle. ‘According to Sinclair Villiers, Hannah Villiers lives in Prince of Wales Drive, Battersea. Where exactly?'

Marriott had known that the question would be asked sooner or later, and the previous day had dispatched a detective to find out. ‘It's one of the mansion flats, sir. I've got the details.'

‘We're police officers, lass, and I'd like to speak to Mrs Villiers,' said Hardcastle, when a young housemaid answered the door. ‘But tell her there's nothing to worry about.' Early on in the war the DDI had learned that families with men at the Front always feared the worst when the police arrived at their door. And Sinclair Villiers had told him that their son, Haydn Villiers, was a captain in the Royal Field Artillery serving with the BEF.

‘If you'll step inside, sir, I'll see if the mistress is at home.' Having made that formal response, the housemaid conducted the two detectives into the hall, and disappeared into a room on the right. Moments later, she returned. ‘Come this way, please, sir.'

‘Elsie, my maid, tells me you're from the police.' Hannah Villiers was a tall, elegant and attractive woman. Given that she had a son who was a captain, she must have been at least forty-five, but looked a good ten years younger. Crossing the room with a swish of her silk dress and a waft of Attar of Violets, she shook hands with Hardcastle. ‘Please take a seat, gentlemen, and tell me how I may help you,' she added, waving a hand at a sofa.

‘I'm Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, madam, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.'

‘From Whitehall, eh? How intriguing. Would you care for some tea? I was about to have some myself.'

‘Most kind,' murmured Hardcastle, taking a seat opposite the woman.

‘Now tell me what this is all about,' said Mrs Villiers, once Elsie had been dispatched to make the tea. She briefly touched her upswept brown hair.

‘I'm investigating a murder that took place during a robbery in Vauxhall Bridge Road, madam,' Hardcastle began. ‘It was a murder in which we believe Mr Sinclair Villiers's car was involved.'

Hannah Villiers threw back her head and emitted a gay, tinkling laugh. ‘D'you mean someone stole his precious Haxe-Doulton motor car to carry out this murder? Did they wreck it?'

‘No, Mrs Villiers,' said Marriott. ‘There wasn't a scratch on it.'

‘Oh, what a shame. Speaking frankly, Sergeant, my estranged husband loved that car more than he loved me. But why have you come to see me? I no longer live with him, as I'm sure he must have told you.'

‘So I understand, madam,' said Hardcastle.

‘It must've hurt his ego when I upped sticks and left him just before the war started,' continued Hannah Villiers in matter-of-fact tones. ‘But Sinclair always liked to be in control. He insisted on the household being kept in a certain order and would carry out inspections, and reorganize things. It really was most intolerable. Apart from that, he ignored me … in every way. I'm sure you know what I mean, Inspector; to him, bed was a place for sleeping in.' She paused to stare directly at Hardcastle as she fingered the Star of David that hung from a silver chain at her neck. ‘It was really too much, so I left him. However, you still haven't told me how any of this concerns me.'

Once again, Hardcastle was surprised at how often women were prepared to share the most intimate details of their married life with a complete stranger. But, paradoxically, rarely spoke of it to their closest friends.

‘Mr Villiers told me that your son, Captain Villiers, stays with you when he is on leave.'

‘That's correct. In fact he's here now. But surely he can't help you with this murder, can he?'

However, further conversation on the subject was interrupted by the arrival of the tea.

‘Just put it down over there, Elsie,' said Hannah. ‘I'll deal with it.' And she spent the next few minutes pouring the tea and handing it round.

‘You say your son is here now, Mrs Villiers,' said Hardcastle. ‘Mr Villiers told me that he was still in France.'

‘Well, Sinclair doesn't know everything, despite what he might think. Haydn's not here at this precise moment, but he is staying with me. I think he's due to go back to France on Friday. He was lucky enough to get leave for Christmas and actually arrived late on Christmas Eve. But I don't really see how he can help you, Inspector.'

‘Nor can I, madam,' said Hardcastle disarmingly, ‘until I speak to him. According to Mr Villiers, your son had permission to use the car, and I was wondering whether he had taken it and perhaps left it somewhere, and that it was stolen from there rather than from Flood Street.' He did not think that at all, but was wondering whether Haydn Villiers had actually been involved in a robbery that had culminated in murder.

‘I see. Well, he'll probably be back in time for luncheon. He wasn't here last night, and I've no idea where he's been.' Hannah Villiers paused and gave a wry smile. ‘But I could hazard a guess at
what
he was doing.'

Hardcastle took out his hunter and stared at it. Giving it a brief wind, he dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket and stood up. ‘I wonder if you'd be so good as to ask him to call in at Cannon Row police station at his convenience, madam. Then I can clear this matter up for once and all.'

‘Of course, Inspector.' She picked up a small bell and rang it. Seconds later, the housemaid appeared. ‘These gentlemen are leaving now, Elsie. Perhaps you'd show them out.'

‘Yes, ma'am.' Elsie bobbed a brief curtsy and waited.

‘I hope you catch your murderer, Inspector.' Hannah Villiers smiled, but the smile was directed at Marriott rather than Hardcastle.

‘I will, madam,' said Hardcastle. ‘You may rest assured of that.'

A
t two o'clock that same afternoon a constable appeared in Hardcastle's office.

‘There's a Captain Villiers downstairs, sir. He says as how you want to see him.'

‘Yes, I do. Show him up, lad, and on your way out tell Sergeant Marriott to come in.'

Haydn Villiers, a man in his early twenties with a neatly trimmed moustache, was immaculate in every respect. His service dress was well-tailored and his Sam Browne and riding boots were polished to perfection. His tunic bore three stars on each cuff, the ribbon of the Military Cross and grenade badges on the collar. His squarely placed cap displayed the distinctive cannon insignia of the Royal Artillery.

‘Inspector Hardcastle? I'm Haydn Villiers,' the youthful gunner said smoothly, and saluted: a courtesy rather than an obligation.

‘Please take a seat, Captain Villiers. This is Detective Sergeant Marriott.'

Villiers nodded briefly in Marriott's direction. ‘My mother told me that you wanted to speak to me. Something about my father's car?' He placed his cap on the edge of Hardcastle's desk, and took out a gold cigarette case. ‘D'you mind?' he enquired, holding a cigarette in the air.

‘Not at all,' said Hardcastle, reaching for his pipe. ‘I have spoken to your father and he told me that you have permission to use his car, Captain Villiers. Is that correct?'

‘Yes, but I don't see what this has to do with me, Inspector.'

‘I presume your mother told you about the murder I'm investigating,' said Hardcastle, having eventually got his pipe alight to his satisfaction. ‘A murder that we believe your father's Haxe-Doulton was involved in.'