Hardcastle's Obsession (20 page)

‘I don’t know how I’m to break this to my mother. The shock of my father being killed has completely unnerved her. What this latest tragedy will do, God only knows.’ It was obvious that the new Lord Rankin was at a loss.

‘Have you just returned from the Front, Lord Rankin?’ asked Marriott.

‘Not recently, no. I came back from Wipers about a month ago. I’m at the Royal Military College at Sandhurst, training young officers. It’s just as well that I’m at home in the circumstances.’

‘It might help us if you knew of any men that Lady Sarah was seeing, Lord Rankin,’ continued Marriott. That Geoffrey Rankin had been back in the country for only a month made it unlikely, but it was a question that had to be asked.

‘I’m afraid not. I’m sorry, you are?’

‘Detective Sergeant Marriott, sir. It’s just that we are anxious to trace anyone who might have known your sister.’

‘Someone she might’ve slept with, I suppose you mean,’ said Rankin in a tone of voice that revealed his disgust at his sister’s behaviour. ‘No, Sergeant, I can’t help you, much as I would like to.’

Hardcastle stood up. ‘Thank you, Lord Rankin. I’m sorry to have been the bearer of bad news, but I was duty bound to inform you.’

‘Of course. Thank you, Inspector.’ Young Rankin crossed the library floor and tugged at a bell pull. ‘I’ll have Bristow show you out. Has Sarah’s body been released for burial yet?’

‘Not yet, sir,’ said Hardcastle. ‘That’ll be a matter for the coroner, of course. But I’ll let you know as soon as possible.’

‘Yes, I quite understand.’ Geoffrey Rankin turned as the butler appeared in the doorway. ‘Perhaps you’d show these officers out, Bristow.’

‘Very good, My Lord,’ murmured Bristow. He had quickly adapted to Geoffrey Rankin’s new status.

The two CID officers followed Bristow into the hall. ‘A sad day for the family, sir,’ he said as he handed them their hats and coats.

Back at Cannon Row police station, Marriott followed Hardcastle into his office.

‘What’s next, sir?’ he asked.

‘We’ll have Sir Royston Naylor in, and give him a talking-to, Marriott, that’s what’s next,’ said Hardcastle. ‘In the meantime, we’ll adjourn to the Red Lion where you’ll have the privilege of buying me a pint.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Marriott grinned, secure in the knowledge that neither he nor Hardcastle ever paid for their beer in the pub outside Scotland Yard.

‘D’you intend to
arrest
Sir Royston Naylor, sir?’ asked Marriott, when he and Hardcastle were back in the DDI’s office.

‘Not yet,’ said Hardcastle. ‘According to Dr Spilsbury, Lady Sarah was topped between ten and twenty hours before we found her. That means that she was murdered on Thursday sometime between two o’clock and midnight. Personally, I’d hazard a guess at sometime later on Thursday evening. I think we’ll have a run down to Wendover and have a word with the butler. What was his name?’

‘Edward Drake, sir, and his wife Gladys is the cook-general.’

‘Ah yes, of course it is.’ Hardcastle was playing his usual game of pretending to forget names. ‘If we have a word with him before Sir Royston Naylor has time to rig up an alibi, we might catch him on the hop.’

‘D’you really think Naylor’s our man, sir?’

‘I’m convinced of it, Marriott. Convinced of it.’

‘When d’you propose going, sir?’ Marriott was afraid that Hardcastle intended to go this afternoon, or even worse, tomorrow morning. The DDI had never been averse to working right through a weekend.

‘We could go this afternoon, I suppose,’ said Hardcastle impishly, ‘or maybe tomorrow. Sunday would be a nice day for a run out to Buckinghamshire.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott flatly.

Hardcastle laughed. ‘It’s all right, Marriott, don’t get yourself in a lather, we’ll go Monday morning. That’ll give Naylor time to lull himself into a false sense of security. Go home and see your children. And give my best to Mrs Marriott.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said a relieved Marriott. As a CID officer he saw all too little of his wife and children. ‘And my regards to Mrs H.’

Only Alice Hardcastle was at home that Saturday evening. Kitty and Maud were both on duty, and Wally had gone to the Bioscope picture house in Vauxhall Bridge Road with a workmate of his to see
The Vagabond
, Charlie Chaplin’s latest comedy.

After dinner, Hardcastle spent the evening reading a book before he and Alice turned in for an early night.

On Sunday morning, following his usual practice, Hardcastle walked down to the newsagent on the corner of Kennington Road to buy a copy of the
News of the World
, and an ounce of St Bruno tobacco.

‘Keeping you busy, Mr Hardcastle, are they?’ Horace Boxall had owned the newsagent and tobacconist shop for as long as Hardcastle could remember.

‘Busy enough, Horace. I’ll have a box of Swan Vestas too.’

Boxall put the newspaper, tobacco and matches on the counter, took Hardcastle’s shilling and handed him the change.

‘I see some big noise in Austria was assassinated yesterday, Mr Hardcastle.’

‘Really,’ said Hardcastle, feigning some interest in the matter.

‘It’s on page three, I think.’

Hardcastle opened the
News of the World
, and found the item to which Boxall had referred. The prime minister of Austria, Count Karl von Stürgkh had been shot dead in a Vienna restaurant by a journalist, Friedrich Adler.

‘Never heard of him, but I don’t suppose he’ll be much of a loss,’ commented Hardcastle, and pocketed his tobacco and matches. ‘One more Hun we won’t have to worry about.’

From Boxall’s, Hardcastle made his way to the nearby licensed grocer’s shop run by the know-all Mr Squires.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Squires. ‘I see the war’s not going too well. The battle of the Somme’s still dragging on, and we seem to be getting nowhere.’

‘Bit of an expert on warfare, are you, Squires?’ said Hardcastle. He was always irritated by the grocer whose opinions of the way in which the war should be conducted were expressed with total disregard to the facts.

‘I reckon they should get rid of that General Haig. I don’t think he knows what he’s doing.’

‘Perhaps you should volunteer for the army, Squires, and get out there to give him the benefit of your advice.’

‘Nothing I’d like more, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Squires earnestly, ‘but I’m a martyr to the arthritis. Not fit, you see.’

‘Well, I hope it don’t stop you from reaching for a bottle of that Johnnie Walker’s Red Label.’

Squires placed the bottle of whisky on the counter. ‘I’ll just put it in a bag for you, Mr Hardcastle. I’m not supposed to sell spirits on a Sunday, but seeing you’re a policeman, I suppose it’ll be all right. That’ll be four and sevenpence, sir.’

‘That’s gone up,’ complained Hardcastle as he handed over two half crowns.

‘It’s the war, sir,’ said Squires mournfully, and gave Hardcastle fivepence change. ‘You mark my words, it’ll be six shillings before this war’s out.’

‘Six bob for a bottle of Scotch, Squires?’ scoffed Hardcastle. ‘That’ll be the day.’ He was still laughing as he left the shop.

It was with his usual feeling of relief that Monday morning came, and Hardcastle set off for the police station.

‘Ready for a trip to Wendover, then, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of finally bringing Sir Royston Naylor to book. But there was a surprise in store for the detectives.

The young woman who answered the door of Kingsley Hall was attired in riding breeches, knee boots and a grey woollen jumper-blouse, and her long blonde hair was dressed into a single plait. For some moments she studied the two bowler-hatted men without comment.

‘Good morning, madam,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’m—’

‘My lady,’ corrected the woman haughtily. ‘I’m addressed as my lady. And I’m not looking for a butler or a footman, thank you very much. We got rid of Drake and his wife and we’ve found replacements who’ll be starting next week. Anyway, how did you know there was a vacancy?’

‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Metropolitan Police, and this here’s Detective Sergeant Marriott. I presume you’re Lady Naylor.’ She certainly appeared to be about the 25 years of age that Drake had said she was. But the butler had also described her as a nervous type who was terrified of Zeppelins. The woman standing in front of Hardcastle now did not seem to fit that description. In fact, she seemed very confident of herself, and was a well-built attractive woman, albeit somewhat coarse of feature.

‘I am Lady Henrietta, yes, and what do the police want with me, might I ask?’

‘It’s not you I wanted to talk to, Lady Naylor, but with Sir Royston.’ Hardcastle did not subscribe to the erroneous form of address that Naylor used to his wife.

‘Well, Inspector, Sir Royston ain’t here, but I suppose you’d better come in.’ Lady Naylor spoke with an affected accent, and had used the word ‘ain’t’ in much the way that she imagined the upper classes, to which she aspired, would employ it.

The two detectives followed Kingsley Hall’s chatelaine into a richly furnished drawing room, the tall windows of which gave a magnificent view of the sweeping grounds to the rear of the house.

With an imperious wave of her hand, Lady Naylor invited Hardcastle and Marriott to sit down before taking a seat on a chesterfield opposite them. She took a cigarette from a silver box, and lit it with a table lighter. Emitting a plume of smoke, she crossed her legs and leaned back.

‘Well, what is it you policemen want?’

‘I’m anxious to discover where Sir Royston was last Thursday, Lady Naylor.’

‘Why?’

‘According to information received—’

Lady Naylor threw back her head and laughed. ‘That’s a nice policeman’s phrase,’ she said. ‘What’s it really mean?’

‘I have been told that Sir Royston might have witnessed a serious crime on Thursday, and I’d like to talk to him about it.’ Hardcastle was struggling with this interview. He had not expected to meet Lady Naylor, but had hoped to speak to Edward Drake, the butler. That Drake had now apparently been dismissed, along with his wife, had put the DDI in a difficult position.

‘I can tell you straight off that he couldn’t have seen anything. He came down here on Thursday morning and stayed until yesterday afternoon. He had to go back to London on account of his having important war work to deal with. Sir Royston is responsible for making army uniforms for our gallant lads at the Front.’

‘I see.’ Hardcastle harboured doubts about the alibi that Lady Naylor had provided for her husband.

‘Does Sir Royston have an apartment in London, Lady Naylor?’ Marriott was playing Hardcastle’s game; he knew that the Naylors had a house in Grosvenor Gardens, but was interested to see what Lady Naylor had to say.

‘If he has, it’s nothing to do with you.’ Lady Naylor appeared affronted at being addressed by a mere sergeant. ‘He always stays at his club when he’s in Town. It’s the Carlton, you know. It’s
the
club for all the bigwigs in the Conservative Party.’ The implication was that Naylor enjoyed the status of a Tory grandee.

‘Why did you sack your butler?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘Unreliable,’ said Lady Naylor.

‘Oh? In what way?’

‘He kept disappearing, and I can’t abide unreliable staff.’

‘Most unfortunate,’ murmured Hardcastle. ‘Did he do it often?’

‘Often enough. There was the weekend of the twenty-third to the twenty-fifth of last month. He just vanished with no explanation. Sir Royston had a shooting party down here, too. It was most inconvenient, and we had to get a girl in from the village to help out.’

‘And you’ve no idea where Drake went, Lady Naylor?’

‘None,’ replied the woman. ‘When he turned up again on the Tuesday, I gave him his cards, and his wife. She wasn’t much of a cook despite always quoting that Mrs Beeton woman.’

‘I don’t wonder you got shot of them, then,’ said Hardcastle. It had not escaped his notice that, according to his late employer, Edward Drake had been absent from Kingsley Hall over the very period that Annie Kelly had been murdered. And yet, Drake had vouched for Sir Royston Naylor’s presence that weekend, and had described the shooting party. It was beginning to look very much as though Drake was implicated in the murder of the Kelly girl, but why?

‘Now, if you’ve finished talking about my former butler, and you’ve nothing more to talk about, I’m about to go riding.’ Lady Naylor stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette and stood up.

Hardcastle maintained an air of sullen taciturnity for the entire journey back to London. Marriott had guessed that this might happen, and had had the foresight to buy a copy of the
Daily Mirror
at Wendover station to read on the train.

The DDI still persisted with his moody silence in the cab back to the police station, refraining for once from offering Marriott his usual advice about the confusion in cab drivers’ minds between Cannon Row in Westminster and Cannon Street in the City of London.

Acknowledging with a grunt the station officer’s report that all was correct, Hardcastle mounted the stairs to his office.

‘Come in, Marriott.’ The DDI sat down and reached for his pipe.

‘Not a very successful trip, sir,’ ventured Marriott, somewhat apprehensively.

‘That bloody woman knows something, Marriott. She knew why we were asking about Naylor, but she trumped us. What the hell made him go down to Wendover on a Thursday morning, eh?’

‘I don’t think he did, sir,’ said Marriott.

‘Of course he didn’t,’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘Why would he do that? She’s giving him an alibi, that’s what that’s all about.’

‘We could let Wood have a word with Naylor’s chauffeur, sir,’ suggested Marriott.

‘No, he’d only tell his guv’nor, and I don’t want Naylor alerted. Mind you, Her Ladyship’s probably done that already.’