Hardcastle's Obsession (6 page)

‘Mind you,’ continued Hardcastle, ‘that still might change unless you help me out over this murder I’m looking into.’

‘I told you in the boozer, I don’t know nothing about no murder,’ protested Waldren.

‘The murdered woman was Annie Kelly, and she was a mate of your ex-fiancée Queenie Douglas.’

‘You didn’t have to tell the girl I was wed,’ complained Waldren. ‘If she’d known, she wouldn’t have let me have it for nothing.’

‘Did you know Annie Kelly, Waldren?’ asked Marriott.

‘Met her a couple of times. When I was picking up Queenie.’

‘Did you know any of the men she went with?’

‘There was a matelot who took her off once or twice.’

‘What ship was he from?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘Dunno,’ said Waldren. ‘He was a petty officer.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’ demanded Hardcastle testily. ‘Don’t they have the name of their ship on their hats?’

‘Not petty officers, they wear peaked caps,’ said Waldren. ‘Weird lot, the navy.’

‘To hell with it,’ muttered an exasperated Hardcastle as he stood up. ‘Lock him up, Marriott, and send word to Sergeant Glover at Horse Guards and tell him that he can have Corporal Waldren as soon as he likes.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘By the way, sir, sailors haven’t worn the name of their ship on their cap ribbons since December 1914. It was an order designed to prevent enemy spies discovering which ships were in port and which were at sea.’

‘Thank you for that useless piece of information, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle acidly, and returned to his office, shouting for Lipton on the way.

‘Yes, sir? Lipton hurried into the DDI’s office.

‘Get up to Victoria station, Lipton, and bring Queenie Douglas here. I should’ve brought her in when I nicked Waldren. And take a cab.’

Surprised at Hardcastle’s free-handedness with the Commissioner’s money, Lipton raced away to do the DDI’s bidding.

DC Gordon Lipton alighted from his cab outside the Victoria Palace Theatre, and made his way across the street towards the railway station. A small group of women was gathered outside the public house in Wilton Road opposite the entrance to the station.

At the sight of Lipton, who many of them knew was a policeman, some of the women started moving away.

Lipton spotted Queenie Douglas and broke into a run. ‘My guv’nor wants a word with you, Queenie,’ he said breathlessly as he caught up with her.

‘Ain’t you lot done enough damage for one night,’ shouted Queenie.

‘Now then, don’t you give me any trouble, Queenie,’ said Lipton. ‘We’ll just take a ride to the nick in a cab, unless you want me to send for a Black Annie. Then I’ll take all your mates with you.’

The threat of being carried off in a prison van was enough for Queenie Douglas, and she waited while Lipton called a taxi.

‘Pulled a copper, have you, Queenie?’ shouted a raucous young trollop with a décolletage that appeared to defy gravity. ‘Lucky you! Make sure you see the colour of his money before you get your drawers off,’ she added from a safe distance.

FOUR

I
t was approaching nine o’clock when DC Gordon Lipton brought Queenie Douglas into the interview room at the police station. Leaving the duty constable to keep a watch on the girl, Lipton went up to the DDI’s office.

‘Queenie Douglas is downstairs, sir. She wasn’t any trouble.’

‘
Any trouble
?’ scoffed Hardcastle, raising an eyebrow as he appraised Lipton’s stocky six-foot-tall figure. ‘I should bloody hope not. All right, lad, you can get about your duties.’

Shouting for Marriott on his way downstairs, Hardcastle threw open the door of the interview room, and dismissed the attendant PC.

‘I wanna know what I’ve been nicked for,’ demanded a truculent Queenie.

‘Soliciting prostitution contrary to Section Three of the Vagrancy Act 1824 if you want to go to court,’ said Hardcastle. ‘If you don’t, just answer my questions. Now then, about Annie Kelly.’

‘What about her?’

‘Your
betrothed
Harry Waldren—’ began Hardcastle sarcastically.

‘Don’t bloody talk to me about that lying little bastard,’ said Queenie angrily. ‘How was I to know he was wed? What’s going to happen to him, anyway?’

‘He’ll probably be shot at dawn for desertion,’ said Marriott mildly.

‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Queenie, staring at Hardcastle’s assistant. ‘Serve the sod right.’

‘Harry Waldren told me that a sailor was in the habit of picking up Annie Kelly,’ continued Hardcastle. ‘What d’you know about that?’

‘Yeah, I seem to remember a bluejacket hanging round her. Handsome big bloke, he was. I wouldn’t’ve minded having him across me.’

‘And did they go off together?’

‘Yeah, I think they did. Once or twice.’

‘And they went to Annie’s place in Ebury Street, I suppose,’ suggested Hardcastle.

‘Well, he never looked like he’d got enough sausage and mash to fork out for a hotel,’ said Queenie with a cheeky grin.

‘Any idea of his name, Queenie?’ asked Marriott.

‘I think she called him Jimmy, but I never heard his other name.’

‘When did you last see him and Annie Kelly together, Queenie?’ asked Marriott.

‘Must’ve been about a week ago, I s’pose, but he might’ve been with her since,’ said Queenie. ‘I never kept a tally of how many tricks she turned,’ she added sarcastically. ‘I had me own tricks to look after.’

‘And he went with Annie two or three times?’

‘Yeah, like I said. He seemed quite sweet on her,’ said Queenie. ‘But I suppose he was married an’ all,’ she added, with the typical cynicism of a prostitute whose knowledge of men had been acquired rapidly and at an early age.

‘All right, you can go,’ said Hardcastle, having decided that he would get no more out of the young woman.

‘Is that it, then?’ Queenie stood up and put her hands on her hips in an attitude of defiance. ‘You going to pay for me cab back to Victoria, then?’

‘No, you can walk,’ said Hardcastle. ‘The exercise will do you good.’

‘Bleedin’ hell,’ exclaimed Queenie. ‘You’ve cost me a few bob already.’

‘Thank your lucky stars that’s all it’s cost you,’ commented Marriott. ‘Annie Kelly got topped.’

Despite the fact that it had gone half past nine, Hardcastle decided that it would be an apposite time to call at the late Annie Kelly’s lodgings in Ebury Street.

A hatchet-faced harridan answered the door to Hardcastle’s persistent knocking. Dressed in black bombazine, her greying hair was drawn back into a tight bun.

‘What’s all the bleedin’ racket about?’ demanded the woman. ‘Disturbing honest folk at this time of night.’

‘Police,’ said Hardcastle. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Clara Foskett. And it’s
Mrs
Foskett to you.’

‘Are you the owner of this property?’

‘Nah, it’s rented, not that it’s got anything to do with you. Any road, what do the police want with me, might I ask?’ Mrs Foskett stood four-square in the doorway, arms akimbo. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong.’

‘D’you let a room to Annie Kelly?’

‘What if I do?’

‘I’m not going to stand on your doorstep bandying words with you, missus,’ said Hardcastle, and he and Marriott pushed past the woman into the hall.

‘Oh, come in do,’ said Mrs Foskett caustically.

‘When did you last see Annie Kelly?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘Last Saturday,’ said Mrs Foskett promptly. ‘Why all the questions about her? She’s my niece, and she’s a good girl. Never gives no trouble.’

‘Is that a fact?’ Hardcastle did not for one moment believe that Annie Kelly was the landlady’s niece. ‘Well, Mrs Foskett, I’m sorry to have to tell you that your
niece
is dead.’

‘Oh my Gawd and heavens above!’ exclaimed Clara Foskett and took hold of the banister post at the bottom of the staircase. ‘What happened? Get run over by a tram, did she?’

‘No, Mrs Foskett, she was murdered.’

This further news caused Clara to sit down on the second stair, her legs spread in an ungainly fashion. ‘Who could’ve done such a thing?’ she asked, and looked up at the DDI with an imploring look on her face, as though he would come up with an answer.

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said Marriott. ‘But it’s not going to be easy, seeing as how she was a whore.’

‘What d’you mean, a whore?’ snapped Mrs Foskett, recovering her composure sufficiently to fix Marriott with an accusing gaze.

‘We know that she was plying her trade outside Victoria station, and was in the habit of picking up soldiers and sailors who paid her for her favours,’ continued Marriott. ‘Did she bring her tricks back here?’

‘She sometimes brought a gentleman friend back here, yes,’ said Mrs Foskett defensively.

It did not escape Hardcastle’s notice that she was familiar with the term ‘trick’ for a prostitute’s client.

‘Anyone called Jimmy, a sailor?’

‘I think there was a nice young gent in navy uniform what come once or twice. A petty officer, Annie said he was. Quite high up in the navy.’

‘The crow’s nest is about the highest he’ll get,’ muttered Hardcastle.

‘Did Annie tell you his surname?’ asked Marriott.

Mrs Foskett gave the question some thought. ‘Yes, it was Nelson. We had a bit of a laugh about that, and asked him if he was related to the admiral what was killed at Trafalgar.’

‘And where did Annie and Nelson go, once they were here?’

‘Up to Annie’s room, of course. I don’t have a decent sitting room, not for visitors. There’s only my private one where I occasionally entertain, and I don’t like to be disturbed by any ragtag and bobtail.’

‘We’ll have a look in Annie’s room, then,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Perhaps you’d show us the way, Mrs Foskett.’

‘What d’you want to go up there for?’

‘Because your nice young sailor might just have been the one who strangled her,’ said Hardcastle.

‘I s’pose I might get to my bed before midnight,’ complained Mrs Foskett, as she struggled into an upright position and led the way to the first floor.

‘Thank you,
madam
,’ said Hardcastle, as the landlady hovered at the door of Annie’s room. ‘You can go now.’

Without a word, Mrs Foskett tossed her head, and returned to the ground floor muttering, yet again, about police disturbing honest folk late at night.

Hardcastle and Marriott searched Annie Kelly’s room thoroughly. Surprisingly it was neat and tidy. The bed was made, and the articles on the dressing table, including a hairbrush, a comb, and several pots of cream and other women’s necessities, were laid out in an orderly fashion.

There were a few items of flashy cheap clothing in a cupboard, and one or two trashy magazines, but nothing that might lead them to her killer.

‘Well?’ Mrs Foskett was waiting in the hall when the two detectives came downstairs.

‘That’ll be all, Mrs Foskett,’ said Hardcastle. ‘For the moment.’

‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Clara Foskett. ‘You wouldn’t like to turn the house inside out while you’re here, I s’pose?’ she asked sarcastically.

Hardcastle opened the front door. On the doorstep were a man and a young girl, probably no older than twenty. The girl had a key in her hand.

‘D’you live here?’ demanded Hardcastle.

‘Yes, I do. And who might you be?’

‘Police,’ said Hardcastle.

‘Christ!’ exclaimed the man who was with the young woman, and promptly turned and ran down the street.

‘Oh, thanks a bleedin’ lot,’ said the girl as she watched her trick escaping.

‘What’s your name, miss?’ asked Marriott.

‘Fanny Booth. Why?’

‘How well d’you know Mrs Foskett?’

‘She’s my niece,’ said Clara Foskett from the foot of the stairs, before Fanny could reply.

‘Is that true?’ asked Marriott of the young girl.

‘Er, yes, of course.’ But Fanny had paused long enough for the detectives to know she was lying.

‘How well d’you know Annie Kelly?’ asked Hardcastle, once Fanny had stepped into the hall and closed the front door.

‘Not all that well.’ Fanny glanced at her ‘aunt’ in much the same way that a faltering actress glances at the prompt box for help with the next line.

‘But if you’re Mrs Foskett’s niece, you and Annie must be sisters, or at least cousins.’

‘We’re a big family,’ put in Mrs Foskett.

‘Be quiet, Mrs Foskett,’ snapped Hardcastle.

‘Why are you asking about Annie?’ asked Fanny.

‘Because she’s been murdered, Miss Booth,’ said Marriott.

‘Murdered?’ Fanny’s face drained of colour. ‘What happened?’

‘She was found strangled in the basement of a bombed-out house in Washbourne Street last Monday morning,’ said Hardcastle. ‘What d’you know about that?’

‘Nothing, as God’s my witness,’ protested Fanny Booth.

‘Did you ever see her coming in with a sailor?’ queried Marriott. ‘Petty Officer Jimmy Nelson of the Royal Navy.’

‘She did come in with a sailor once or twice, yes.’

‘When was the last time?’

‘Must’ve been about a week ago, I s’pose.’

‘And you’ve not seen him since?’

‘No, I never.’

‘Where did she pick him up? Victoria station, was it?’

‘I dunno. Maybe.’

‘Are you one of the girls who pick up soldiers coming off the trains at Victoria station, Fanny?’ asked Marriott.

‘No, I ain’t.’ Fanny contrived outrage. ‘What d’you take me for?’

‘A common prostitute,’ said Hardcastle harshly. ‘And if I was in your shoes, I’d pack it in. At least until we find out who topped your mate. You never know who he might pick on next. It might be you. I suppose you’ve heard of Jack the Ripper.’ And with that dire warning Hardcastle dismissed Fanny Booth, and turned his attention, once more, to Mrs Foskett. ‘I want details of where I can find Annie Kelly’s family,’ he said.