Hardcastle's Quartet

By Graham Ison

Accident . . . or murder? Detective Inspector Hardcastle’s seemingly simple investigation turns more complicated, in his latest case

June 1918. A patrolling constable discovers the body of Georgina Cheney, wife of a naval commander, in the basement area of a house in Westminster. At first it is thought to be suicide or even a tragic accident. But as Divisional Detective Inspector Ernest Hardcastle of the A or Whitehall Division of the Metropolitan Police begins to investigate – ably assisted by Detective Sergeant Charles Marriott – they soon discover a different story. It is clear that the woman was murdered, and revelations about the victim’s previous life in Malta arouse Hardcastle’s interest.

But things are destined to get even more complicated for Hardcastle, when he is assigned two further murder cases by Detective Chief Inspector Frederick Wensley, head of the CID at New Scotland Yard. Could they be connected? This may be a puzzle too tricky even for Hardcastle to solve . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Nov 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781780105727

Graham Ison

During Graham Ison’s thirty-year career in Scotland Yard’s Special Branch he was involved in several espionage cases. He also spent four years at 10 Downing Street as Protection Officer to two Prime Ministers. He is an honorary agent of the US Army Criminal Investigation Command.

Book preview

ONE

It had started to rain. Not very much, but enough to prompt Police Constable Harold Barnes to curse before removing his glazed waterproof cape from its belt hook and fastening it around his shoulders. As the rain increased, he sought some shelter and, making his way to the doorway of 29 Whilber Street, he stopped under the portico. The section sergeant had visited Barnes ten minutes ago outside the Royal Mews and he would not be round again for at least an hour. Barnes decided, therefore, that it was safe to have a smoke and took out his pipe.

It was just as he was filling it with his favourite Country Life smoking mixture that he happened to glance down into the basement area. It was then that he saw the body of a woman.

Shoving his unlit pipe back into his pocket, Barnes pushed open the cast-iron gate and descended the few steps into the basement. The body was face down, head to one side. On closer examination, he saw that it was the body of a young woman with long black hair attired in a bust-bodice corset, black art silk stockings and one black glacé court shoe. And nothing else. Barnes knelt down and felt for a pulse, but the woman was dead.

Returning to pavement level, he withdrew his whistle from beneath his cape and blew three short, sharp blasts.

Minutes later PC Ben Holroyd, who was on the neighbouring beat, rounded the corner at a run. Breathless, he skidded to a halt.

‘What’s up, Harry?’

‘Got a stiff, Ben,’ said Barnes, pointing down into the basement area. ‘Looks like a suicide.’

‘Ain’t you the lucky one?’ Holroyd laughed. Both he and Barnes knew that it would involve Barnes in a considerable amount of report writing. ‘I’ll leg it back to the nick and call out the cavalry.’

Barnes returned to the portico and took out his pocketbook. Licking his pencil, he began to write his report. On Wednesday 12th June 1918 at 6.32 a.m. at 29 Whilber Street, London, S.W., I discovered the body of a woman in the basement area. Descending to the location, I ascertained that she was dead.

Barnes spent the next twenty minutes recording such details that he knew would be asked for by the CID officers deputed to investigate the matter. He noted the position of the body, the fact that one shoe appeared to be missing, and that the body had been almost dry when he found it. He paused thoughtfully and licked his pencil again before adding the time that the rain had started to fall.

The weather in that June of 1918 was cooler than was to be expected. Although at one point reaching 77 degrees Fahrenheit, the north-east wind kept temperatures generally lower than usual and over an inch of rain fell. Of greater concern than the weather, however, was the fact that 25 million people had died worldwide as a result of the Spanish influenza pandemic, more than the combined losses of the war that was grinding slowly to its bloody close on the Western Front.

But on that Wednesday the twelfth of June it was matters closer to home that were troubling Divisional Detective Inspector Ernest Hardcastle of the A or Whitehall Division of the Metropolitan Police. And he was in a foul mood.

The onset of this ill temper had occurred at breakfast when he mildly enquired why there was no marmalade, a query that had caused his wife to launch into a lecture about the shortage of jam in general and marmalade in particular.

‘According to the Daily Mail,’ explained Alice, ‘there’s a shortage of oranges to make the marmalade with. I would’ve made plum jam instead, but the heavy rains destroyed a lot of this season’s crops. And plums have shot up from sixpence a pound to half a crown, so there’s no plum jam either. Disgraceful, I call it.’

‘It’s the war.’ Hardcastle wished he had not asked about the marmalade, and returned his attention to the morning newspaper.

But matters only got worse when Hardcastle reached the tram stop. Apart from the rain, the tram that usually took him from Kennington Road to Westminster was stationary and showed no signs of moving. The conductorette was standing on the step of the tram. As her small audience of disgruntled passengers increased, she explained that the tram ahead had been in collision with an army lorry and that the soldier driver had been slightly injured; it was an accident that Hardcastle condemned as ‘damned carelessness’ on the part of the military. Bringing his policeman’s mind to bear, he decided that as the tram was on fixed tracks and the lorry was not, the fault must rest with the army driver.

Hardcastle stepped into the road. The first cab to come along was a hansom, numbers of which had increased of late due to petrol shortages and the fact that many motor drivers were at the Front. But Hardcastle had no intention of going to work in a horse-drawn conveyance. He waited for a motor cab.

‘Whitehall, cabbie, and don’t take all day about it.’

‘What’s up with you, mister? Get out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?’ growled the driver as he yanked down the taximeter flag.

On the brighter side, that morning’s newspaper carried reports of the fighting on the Western Front. Allied troops – British, Empire, French and American – were now largely out of their trenches and fierce battles were swinging back and forth between Compiègne and Montdidier.

Finally arriving at Cannon Row police station, Hardcastle swept into the front office. The police station was immediately opposite the forbidding structure of New Scotland Yard, constructed to Norman Shaw’s plans from Dartmoor granite hewn, fittingly, by convicts from the nearby prison that took its name from its bleak Devon surroundings.

The station officer stood up. ‘All correct, sir.’

‘I’m glad you think so,’ snapped Hardcastle, irritated by the formal report that officers were obliged by the regulations to make, whether all was correct or not. ‘Anything I should know about?’

‘Yes, sir. PC 107 has found the dead body of a woman in a basement in Whilber Street. Sergeant Marriott is on the scene already, sir.’

‘What are the details?’

‘According to 107, sir, it looks as though the deceased fell from a first-floor window.’

‘It’ll be either accident or suicide, I suppose,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Where’s Mr Rhodes?’ Rhodes was the detective inspector in charge of the CID for the Cannon Row subdivision. ‘Is he up there?’

‘No, sir, he’s dealing with a break-in at a jeweller’s shop in Artillery Row, sir.’

‘Dammit!’ exclaimed Hardcastle. ‘I’d better go up to Whilber Street and take a look, I suppose. And to cap it all, Skipper, I’ve come out without my tobacco pouch.’

The DDI walked out to Parliament Street and called in at the tobacconist to buy an ounce of St Bruno tobacco before hailing a cab.

When Hardcastle arrived in Whilber Street, he was greeted by Inspector Joplin, the patrolling officer. Standing nearby were Detective Constables Henry Catto and Basil Keeler, and PC Barnes. PC Holroyd was also there, having returned to Whilber Street with Inspector Joplin.

‘All correct, sir,’ said Joplin, saluting.

‘Who found this here body, Mr Joplin?’ asked Hardcastle as he raised his umbrella.

‘PC 107 Barnes, sir,’ said the inspector. ‘He’s a good officer.’

‘Pleased to hear it,’ muttered Hardcastle in response to this gratuitous piece of information. He did not think that one had to be a ‘good officer’ to come across a dead body. Glancing at Catto and Keeler, he frowned. ‘What are you two supposed to be doing?’

‘Waiting for orders, sir,’ said Catto nervously. Although he was a competent detective, Catto was always apprehensive in the DDI’s presence.

‘Start knocking on doors, then,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘Find out if anyone knows anything. You shouldn’t have to be told what to do.’ And with that inadequate instruction, he walked across to join Marriott.

‘Good morning, sir.’ Charles Marriott raised his bowler hat. As a detective sergeant (first class) he was the officer Hardcastle always selected to assist him in murder enquiries. Not that there was any evidence of murder in this case. At least, not yet.

‘Tell me the tale, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, declining, as always, to return the sergeant’s greeting.

Marriott briefly described the circumstances under which PC Barnes had found the body. ‘I noticed that a first-floor window was wide open, sir, and called at the house. There’s a young maid there by the name of Hannah Clarke. She told me that she works for a Mrs Georgina Cheney, but that Mrs Cheney was not at home, even though she should’ve been. It looks as though our body is likely to be that of Mrs Cheney. The maid told me that Mrs Cheney’s husband is a Commander Robert Cheney, Royal Navy.’

‘Is he there?’

‘No, sir. Miss Clarke thinks he’s at sea.’

‘Has she identified the body as being this here Mrs Cheney?’

‘No, sir. She was so upset at the thought that it might be her mistress that I deemed it unwise to involve her.’

‘Very wise, Marriott. Don’t want her crying her bloody eyes out all over our evidence. I’ll have a word with her later on. Have you sent for the divisional surgeon?’

‘Yes, sir. He’s down in the basement now, having a look at the body.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Doctor Thomas, sir.’

‘Well, he’s no bloody good. Send for Spilsbury.’

‘Already done, sir.’ Marriott knew that the DDI would want Dr Bernard Spilsbury to attend this latest suspicious death. ‘But can we be sure that it’s not an accidental death? Or even suicide?’

‘It’s murder, Marriott, until someone tells me it ain’t,’ said Hardcastle, and descended to view the body for himself.

‘A nasty one, Inspector,’ said Dr Thomas, glancing up as Hardcastle joined him.

‘And your opinion, Doctor?’ Hardcastle spoke in a detached way, paying more attention to studying the dead woman’s face than listening to a medical practitioner in whose findings he placed little faith.

‘Undoubtedly died as a result of falling out of the window,’ said Thomas, and stood up.

‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But Dr Spilsbury’s on his way.’

‘Oh? Is that really necessary?’ asked Thomas, taking the DDI’s comment as a slight on his professional judgement.

‘Don’t hurt to have a second opinion,’ rejoined Hardcastle tersely, and left Thomas to put his paraphernalia away in his Gladstone bag.

As Hardcastle returned to street level, a cab drew up and Dr Bernard Spilsbury alighted. Attired as usual in morning dress with a cape and a top hat, he was a tall, austere figure of a man with a commanding presence.

Dr Thomas gave Spilsbury a brief nod and climbed into the cab that the pathologist had just vacated.

Although only forty-one years of age, Spilsbury enjoyed a formidable prestige in the field of forensic pathology. The cause célèbre that brought him to the notice of the public had occurred four years previously. His evidence in what became known as the Brides-in-the-Bath case was instrumental in proving categorically that George Joseph Smith had murdered three of his wives, thus negating the defence argument of accidental drowning. It was that notorious series of murders that had established Spilsbury’s reputation. Thereafter, whenever defence counsel learned that Spilsbury would be appearing for the Crown, they would spend hours reading learned works on causes of death before subjecting him to cross-examination.

‘Ah, good morning, Hardcastle,’ said Spilsbury, as the DDI raised his hat. Ignoring the increasing rain, he swept off his hat and handed it, together with his cane, to Police Constable Holroyd. ‘I’m told you have a cadaver for me.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ said Hardcastle, and opened the gate leading to the basement area.

Descending the half-dozen steps, Spilsbury knelt beside the body and conducted a number of tests. Still kneeling, he made a few notes on the back of an envelope. ‘When did it start raining?’ he enquired of no one in particular.

‘Twenty-five past six, sir,’ said PC Barnes, who had been leaning over the railings watching Spilsbury at work.

‘Splendid,’ said Spilsbury. ‘You’ve got a good man there, Inspector. Very observant.’

‘So I’ve been told,’ muttered Hardcastle.

‘The cadaver’s almost dry,’ Spilsbury continued, ‘and I’d estimate the time of death to be at least eight hours ago, but I may change that view after I’ve conducted the post-mortem examination. Perhaps you’d be so good as to have it covered.’

‘And the cause of death, sir?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘My first impression is that death was a result of falling from that window,’ said Spilsbury cautiously as he pointed up at the open window that had previously attracted Marriott’s attention. ‘On the other hand, my dear Hardcastle, if it was the fall that had caused this young woman’s death I’d’ve expected there to be some blood surrounding the cadaver. But there’s none. However,’ he continued, standing up and brushing his knees, ‘I’ll be able to tell you more when I’ve had the opportunity to examine the cadaver more closely. Be so good as to have it sent to the usual place.’

‘Very good, Doctor.’ Hardcastle knew that Spilsbury always carried out his post-mortem examinations at St Mary’s Hospital at Paddington.

‘I’ll examine the unfortunate woman this afternoon,’ said Spilsbury as he retrieved his hat and cane from PC Holroyd.

‘Call the good doctor a cab, lad,’ said Hardcastle.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Holroyd, and stepped into the roadway as he sighted a taxi.

‘Mr Joplin.’

‘Sir?’

‘Be so good as to arrange for the removal of the body to St Mary’s Hospital at Paddington,

‘Very good, sir,’ said Inspector Joplin.

That matter put in hand, Hardcastle turned to Marriott. ‘And now we’ll have a word with the housemaid. What was her name again, Marriott?’

‘Hannah Clarke, sir.’

‘Ah, yes, that’s the girl.’

It was some time after Hardcastle had hammered loudly on the knocker of the Cheneys’ house that the frightened face of Hannah Clarke appeared round the door.

‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, lass.’

‘Oh, sir, I saw all the policemen outside. What on earth has happened?’ asked the housemaid as she bobbed a curtsy. Dressed in standard domestic uniform, she wore a floor-length dress, apron and a lace coronet cap beneath which her blonde hair was swept up into a tight French roll.

‘I think we’d better come in,’ said Hardcastle.

‘Yes, sir, of course,’ said Hannah and led the detectives towards the kitchen.

‘I think we’ll use the drawing room, Hannah.’

‘I’m not sure the mistress would like that, sir.’

‘I doubt she’d mind in the circumstances, lass.’ Hardcastle opened the door to the drawing room and marched in. ‘Now, then, you just sit yourself down.’

‘Are you sure, sir?’ The idea of taking a seat in the drawing room was clearly alien to the young girl.

‘It’ll be all right, Hannah,’ said Marriott. ‘How old are you?’

‘Er, nineteen, sir,’ said Hannah, after a pause, but remained standing.

‘Have you worked for Mrs Cheney for long?

‘A year come next month, sir.’ It was, however, a statement that was subsequently proved to be untrue.

‘Now, lass, d’you have a photograph of your mistress anywhere?’ Hardcastle asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Hannah. Crossing to the escritoire, she handed a framed studio portrait to Hardcastle. ‘I dusts it every day, sir,’ she added with a smile.

‘I’m sure you do, lass,’ said Hardcastle. After studying the image for a few seconds, he passed it to his sergeant. ‘What d’you think, Marriott?’

‘That’s her, sir.’ Marriott returned the frame to the housemaid.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that a body has been found in the basement, Hannah. Judging by this photograph it would appear to be your mistress,’ said Hardcastle as gently as he could.

‘Oh, the poor woman.’ Hannah Clarke emitted a sob that quickly became a flood of tears, and felt in her pocket for a handkerchief.

‘Do you live here, lass?’ asked Marriott. ‘Or do you come in every day?’

‘No, I live in, sir,’ said Hannah between sobs. ‘I’ve got a very nice room on the top floor, but I don’t know what I’ll do now. I suppose I’ll have to try for another position.’

‘And where does Mrs Cheney sleep?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘She has a bedroom on the first floor, sir. At the front.’

‘Perhaps you’d show us, then.’

Hannah stood up, still dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, and led the way upstairs.

The bedroom into which the maid showed the two detectives was a large, airy room, and contained a double bed that, although slightly crumpled, showed no sign of having been slept in. The other furniture comprised a large rosewood wardrobe, a matching dressing table adorned with a hairbrush, pots of face cream and other cosmetic items. In front of the dressing table was a satin-covered low-backed chair. A basin and ewer stood on a marble-topped washstand in one corner. A pink satin peignoir had been thrown carelessly on a chaise-longue and there was a single black glacé kid shoe on the floor near the bed.

‘Did you make this bed this morning, Hannah?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘No, sir. This is the first time I’ve been in here since yesterday morning.’

‘That’s a high window sill, sir,’ observed Marriott. ‘Bit difficult to fall out of it accidentally, I’d’ve thought.’

‘So would I, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, moving across the room. He had rapidly come to the conclusion that Georgina Cheney had been pushed rather than fallen accidentally. He examined the window sill closely, but found nothing that would assist in his investigation. Nevertheless, he decided against saying anything in the presence of the distraught maid.

They returned to the drawing room on the floor below.

‘How about you make us a nice cup of tea, lass,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I expect you could do with one yourself.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Hannah, and disappeared.

‘What d’you think, sir?’ asked Marriott.

‘I don’t think she fell accidentally; the window sill’s too high,’ said Hardcastle, confirming what Marriott had said earlier, ‘but I suppose it’s possible she committed suicide. There again a woman committing suicide would either take both her shoes off, or leave ’em both on.’ For a moment or two he pondered that intriguing enigma. ‘But we’ll have to wait and see what the good doctor has to say about it.’

‘We’ll have to do something about getting hold of Mrs Cheney’s husband, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘The maid told me that he’s in the Royal Navy and she thinks he’s at sea.’

‘That’ll mean a trip to the Admiralty,’ said Hardcastle. ‘At least it’ll make a change from dealing with the army.’

The maid came back into the room bearing a tray of tea. Marriott moved a small table so that she could set it down.

‘That’s what we need to cheer us up, lass,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Ah, I see you’ve found some ginger nuts. They’re my favourite.’ He leaned forward and took a biscuit. ‘You told my sergeant earlier this morning than Mrs Cheney’s husband is in the navy, Hannah.’

‘Yes, sir. The commander’s in one of them big ships with Admiral Beatty. At least, I think that’s what the mistress said.’

‘I don’t suppose you know where that ship is, do you?’ asked Hardcastle, brushing biscuit crumbs from his jacket.

‘No, sir. The mistress said as how it’s secret and no one had to know.’

‘Very wise of her,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Where’s your tea, lass?’

‘I thought I’d better have mine in the kitchen, sir. It don’t seem proper having it in here.’

‘I think we can make an exception in the circumstances, Hannah. You go and fetch your cup and bring it in here.’

‘If you’re sure, sir,’ said Hannah. She returned a few moments later and stood awkwardly in front of the two CID officers.

‘Now you sit yourself down,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and tell us all about your mistress.’

‘She was always very good to me, sir.’ Hannah finally yielded to Hardcastle’s suggestion and perched uncomfortably on the edge of

Reviews for Hardcastle's Quartet

[druidgirl_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A constable finds a dead woman in the basement stairway of her home, she is Georgina Cheney the wife of a Naval Commander. As DDI Ernest Hardcastle starts to investigate with his assistant Detective Sergeant Charles Marriot, as the investigation goes forward more murders are discovered and some very strange happenings start.This is a very well written book with a fine plot and cast of characters. I enjoyed this book immensely and would highly recommend it as a wonderful read.***I received this book in exchange for an honest review.***