Hardcastle's Traitors

ONE

The maroons had been detonated at the nearby Renfrew Road fire station at twenty minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve 1915, signalling the onset of yet another air raid by the dreaded Zeppelins. In common with most Londoners, Ernest Hardcastle knew that the alert was invariably sounded when the raiders were crossing the coast. It would take some time, at least an hour, for the giant airships, lumbering along at seventy miles an hour, to reach the capital.

The Hardcastle family was gathered in the parlour of their house in Kennington Road, London. It was the home that Ernest and Alice Hardcastle had moved into immediately after their marriage twenty-three years ago, and was only a few doors away from where Charlie Chaplin, much-loved slapstick star of the silent films, had once lived.

In a corner of the comfortable sitting room stood a decorated Christmas tree. But it bore none of the miniature candles favoured by many families; Hardcastle was only too aware of the fire risk that that would present. Painstakingly made paper chains had been strung from each corner of the room to the electric light fitting in the centre of the whitewashed ceiling.

Hardcastle busied himself spending a few minutes dispensing drinks from a cabinet in the corner.

‘A Happy New Year everyone and may it see an end to this wretched war.’ On the stroke of midnight, Ernest Hardcastle, his back to a glowing coal fire, raised his glass and took a sip of whisky.

‘Amen to that,’ said Alice, raising her glass of Amontillado and joining in the toast together with the Hardcastles’ two daughters and their son. Kitty and Maud, at nineteen and seventeen respectively, were now old enough for a glass of sherry. But Walter, the Hardcastles’ son, whose sixteenth birthday would not occur until the twenty-fourth of January 1916, was only permitted a glass of brown ale, and that as a special treat.

Hardcastle kissed his wife and his daughters and shook hands with Walter.

The war to which Hardcastle alluded had been in progress for the sixteen months since the fourth of August 1914. Despite his pious hope for a swift end to the bloody conflict, there had been nothing but depressing news since the war had started. Nor were there any signs of victory in the foreseeable future; the losses were mounting day after day.

In August 1914, young men had flocked enthusiastically to the Colours fearful that the widely held belief that it would all be over by Christmas would mean missing the ‘fun’ as they had termed it. But it was a premise that had proved to be well short of the reality. Now, just over a year later, the two opposing armies were firmly entrenched from the North Sea to the Swiss border; and thousands of British, Colonial and German troops lay dead with little but a few yards of blood-sodden ground to show for their sacrifice.

The sight of wounded soldiers and sailors in the streets had become commonplace, and hospitals were overflowing with the seriously injured.

The war no longer seemed like ‘fun’. And now that the earlier flood of keen volunteers had started to ebb, Parliament would shortly begin debating the imposition of compulsory conscription to fill the yawning gaps in the ranks of the decimated British Army.

At five minutes past midnight, Hardcastle took his hunter from his waistcoat pocket and flicked open the cover.

‘It’s time we took shelter, just to be on the safe side,’ he said, and conducted his family into the cupboard beneath the stairs, having first instructed Walter to check the blackout curtains and, as an added precaution, to turn out all the lights.

Very soon the menacing heavy throb of Maybach engines and the spasmodic bark of anti-aircraft guns announced the arrival of the enemy overhead. And occasionally the distinctive sound of British fighters could be heard zooming around the sky in a vain attempt to destroy one of the giant airships. But for the most part they were unable to match the Zeppelins’ superior altitude.

Even in the cupboard under the stairs, the Hardcastles were able to hear, somewhere in the distance, the noise of cascading bricks; indication that yet another building had fallen victim to the raiders’ bombs.

It was not until one o’clock in the morning that the Hardcastles heard the voice of a cycling policeman shouting ‘All Clear’, and the family was able to emerge from its makeshift shelter.

‘I could do with a cup of tea,’ said Alice, stretching her limbs after an hour’s confinement in the cramped staircase cupboard.

‘Not for me,’ said Kitty, ‘I’m off to bed. I’m early shift in the morning.’ For some months now, Kitty had been working as a conductorette with the London General Omnibus Company. She had taken the job against her father’s wishes, but Kitty had always been a headstrong girl. Even so, her excuse that she was releasing a man for the Front had little impact on her father who did not see working on the buses as women’s work, whatever the circumstances.

‘I’m for bed too,’ said Maud, who also worked long hours. For the past few months she had been nursing at one of the big houses in Mayfair that had been converted to hospital accommodation for wounded officers.

Refusing his wife’s offer of a cup of tea, Hardcastle was about to pour himself another whisky when there was a knock at the door.

‘Surely it’s not a neighbour come to wish us a Happy New Year at this hour of the morning,’ he muttered, as he pulled open the front door. But it was a jocular comment; he had already anticipated who would be on the doorstep. As the divisional detective inspector of the A or Whitehall Division of the Metropolitan Police he had his headquarters at Cannon Row police station in the shadow of New Scotland Yard. Being the division’s senior detective, he was expected to be on call at all hours.

‘Mr Hardcastle, sir?’ A sergeant from Kennington Road police station was standing on the doorstep.

‘What is it, Skipper?’ There was a resigned note in Hardcastle’s question.

‘There’s been a burglary at a jeweller’s shop in Vauxhall Bridge Road, sir.’ The sergeant proffered a message form.

‘Why the hell do I need to know that at this hour?’ demanded Hardcastle, seizing the form.

‘There’s been a murder there as well, sir,’ said the sergeant, before Hardcastle had finished reading the message.

‘God dammit! Best see if you can find me a cab, Skipper. And when you get back to the nick telephone Cannon Row and tell them I want DS Marriott and a couple of detectives at the scene tout de suite.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The sergeant flicked back his cape and taking his pocketbook from a tunic pocket, made a note. That done, he paused and grinned. ‘And a very Happy New Year to you and your family, sir.’

‘Some hopes of that,’ muttered Hardcastle, donning his Chesterfield overcoat and seizing his bowler hat and umbrella. He took a few paces back into the hallway. ‘I’ve got to go out, love,’ he shouted. ‘Expect me when you see me,’ he added. It was something he always said when called out to deal with a crime.

‘You take care of yourself, Ernie,’ responded his wife from the kitchen. Having been married to a policeman for twenty-three years, Alice had grown accustomed to her husband being sent for at any hour of the day or night, especially now that he was a senior detective.

The sign over the shop simply read: REUBEN GOSLING. At one end of the fascia a projecting wrought-iron arm bore the three golden balls that were the traditional sign of a pawnbroker.

When Hardcastle arrived, Detective Sergeant Charles Marriott was already there. As a first-class sergeant, he was the officer Hardcastle always chose as his assistant. Marriott lived with his wife Lorna and their two children in police quarters in Regency Street, within walking distance of Vauxhall Bridge Road. Neither Marriott nor his wife was pleased at his being called out so early in the New Year.

Detective Constables Henry Catto and Cecil Watkins were also there, their umbrellas raised. The two DCs, being single men, lived in the police section house at Ambrosden Avenue, and were the ones that Marriott called out in preference to married officers, particularly during festive celebrations such as the New Year.

It was an unseasonably warm night, temperatures having on occasion reached fifty degrees Fahrenheit in late December. But it was raining quite hard.

‘What do we know so far, Marriott?’ asked Hardcastle, struggling to raise his umbrella as he alighted from his cab.

‘Forced entry was made through the shop door, sir.’ Marriott indicated a hole in the glass panel. ‘A professional job by the look of it: brown paper, treacle and a glass cutter. There was only a Yale rim latch, despite the owner having been advised on several occasions to improve the security. Either the thieves knew that or they struck lucky.’

‘More than the victim did,’ muttered Hardcastle. ‘Where’s the body, Marriott?’

‘In the front of the shop, sir, near the cash register.’

‘Who found it?’

‘PC 313A Dodds, sir. He was on this beat and a member of the public called him. Something to do with a car making off at high speed. It was then that Dodds found the broken glass in the door.’

‘Where is this PC, Marriott?’

‘Here, sir,’ said a caped figure. He approached Hardcastle and saluted. ‘All correct, sir.’

‘I’m glad you think so, lad.’ Hardcastle always addressed constables as ‘lad’ even though they were often his age or even older. ‘Sergeant Marriott’s given me the brief details, but how exactly did you come across this break-in?’

‘I was patrolling my beat in a north-westerly direction, sir—’ the PC began.

‘Never mind all that fiddle-faddle, Dodds, you’re not giving evidence now,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Just tell me the story.’

‘Yes, sir. I was about fifty yards away when I heard someone shouting for police. So I made me way down here a bit swift and come across the broken glass panel in this door, sir, and so I ventured inside.’

‘And what did you find when you ventured inside, as you put it, lad?’ demanded Hardcastle sarcastically. He was always impatient when receiving a report from an officer who prevaricated.

‘I saw Mr Gosling’s body lying on the floor, sir. I never touched nothing apart from ascertaining that he was dead. Then I shouted for my mate on the adjoining beat, and told him to get assistance from Rochester Row nick, sir. It’s only about five minutes away.’

‘For God’s sake, lad, I know where Rochester Row nick is,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir. While I was waiting I had a word with the gent from the outfitters next door. It was him what called me, sir, and he reckoned as how he’d seen a motor vehicle leaving the scene at a fast speed.’

‘Did you see this motor vehicle yourself?’

‘No, sir. It must’ve made off in the opposite direction. The opposite direction from the one I come from, if you see what I mean, sir.’

‘And who is this man?’

‘Mr Sidney Partridge, sir,’ said Dodds, quickly referring to his pocketbook.

Hardcastle grunted and turned to Marriott. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had time to find out what’s been taken yet. But I presume they didn’t leave without helping themselves to the tomfoolery.’

‘The glass showcases have been broken into, sir, and they’ve been emptied,’ said Marriott. ‘Quite a haul of jewellery, I’d’ve thought, although they’ve left some cheap stuff behind, along with all of the stuff that had been pledged, as far as I can tell. It seems as though they knew what they were looking for.’

‘We’d better take a glim at this here corpse, then.’ Closing his umbrella, Hardcastle pushed open the door with a gloved hand.

The body of an elderly man lay face down in the centre of the shop floor, arms outstretched, his head a mass of matted blood. He was dressed in striped pyjamas, a dressing gown and slippers. An Ever-Ready electric torch – still switched on – lay close to the man’s right hand, and a pool of his blood had spread across the linoleum-covered floor. But blood had been splashed everywhere: on the front of the counter, on the walls and on the showcases.

‘They must’ve given him a good whack, judging by the amount of blood, Marriott. Looks like an abattoir,’ said Hardcastle, hands in pockets as he glanced around. ‘I reckon he disturbed these villains and was bludgeoned on the head for his pains.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott confined himself to a simple answer, as he always did whenever the DDI stated the obvious. ‘I’ve sent for Doctor Spilsbury, sir,’ he said, anticipating the DDI’s next instruction.

‘That PC said this man’s name was Gosling.’

‘Yes, sir, Reuben Gosling. He’s owned this establishment for nigh on thirty years.’ It was Marriott’s job to possess such local knowledge. ‘He’s a jeweller as well as a pawnbroker.’

‘I gathered that from the sign outside,’ said Hardcastle acidly. ‘Is he married?’

‘I believe he’s a widower, sir. I had heard that his wife died about ten years ago, but I don’t know for sure.’

‘And he lived over the shop, I suppose.’

‘Yes, sir.

‘Where’s this witness Partridge, the one that Dodds mentioned?’

‘He lives above the outfitters next door, sir.’

‘In that case we’ll have a word with him while we’re waiting for the good doctor to arrive.’ Hardcastle turned to the two DCs. ‘You wait here for Dr Spilsbury. Have a look round and see if you can find anything of importance, but don’t touch it if you do. Understood, Catto?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Catto was an experienced detective and did not need to be told how to conduct himself at the scene of a murder, but for some reason that Catto had never been able to fathom his abilities were always called into question by the DDI.

The window of the outfitter’s shop next to Gosling’s establishment contained a number of mannequins attired in the latest men’s fashions. Hardcastle looked around the doorway of the shop until he discovered a bell handle high on one side. He pulled at it several times.

Eventually a window on the floor above the door was flung open and a tousled head appeared.

‘Who the devil’s that at this time of the morning disturbing decent folk when they’re trying to get some shut-eye?’ The speaker was clearly in a bad mood.

‘Police,’ said Hardcastle, stepping back from the doorway and looking up.

‘Oh, right. Hang on, guv’nor.’ The head disappeared and moments later the shop door was opened by a man in a nightshirt over which he wore an overcoat. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know it was you,’ he said. ‘You’d better come inside. It’s a bit of a dirty night out there.’

Leaving their umbrellas on the step, the two detectives entered the shop and Marriott closed the door.

‘You’re Mr Sidney Partridge, I understand,’ said Hardcastle.

‘That’s me, sir.’ Partridge stood with shoulders slightly rounded and hands clasped together in the manner of the obsequious, mid-fifties, shopkeeper he was.

‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division. Are you the owner of this establishment, Mr Partridge?’

‘That I am, sir, and any time I can fix you up with a suit, just say the word. At a discount, of course. I’ve a very good selection.’ Partridge made a sweeping motion with a hand, as if to encompass his entire stock.

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Hardcastle, gazing round at the racks of suits, overcoats and other items of apparel that comprised a gentleman’s outfitter’s stock-in-trade. ‘I understand you have some information that might assist me.’

‘Well, I don’t know if I’ve got anything to tell you that might be of any use, sir. Me and Gladys had toasted the New Year on the stroke of twelve and then we chatted for a bit. It must’ve been about ten past midnight when we decided to turn in. I checked the curtains to make sure they were covering the window, seeing as how the maroons had gone off from the fire station in Greycoat Place about half an hour before. But I knew we had time to spare before those wretched Blimps came right over London. It’s always the same, you see, sir. They set off the warning far too early. The curtains were all right, though; being in the trade, so to speak, I can lay my hands on a good quality twill.’

‘But what did you see, Mr Partridge?’ prompted Hardcastle somewhat tetchily, fearing that the outfitter was on the point of embarking on a lengthy monologue about air raids and curtains.

‘Well, like I was saying, I happened to look out of the window and I saw these two men – rough-looking blokes they was – come out of Reuben’s shop and jump into a motor car. Then they drove off like the hounds of hell were on their tail. I was pretty sure something had happened, so I opened the window and yelled Police, and the officer on the beat came running.’

‘Do you know what sort of car it was, Mr Partridge?’ asked Marriott.

‘I don’t know much about cars.’ Partridge paused, a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘But I think the one I saw is called a tourer. It was an open car, but it had a hood that was up; one of those canvas things. Oh, and it had them white tyres.’

‘White tyres?’ queried Marriott, looking up from his pocketbook.

‘Yes, like they have on American cars. You know the sort of thing: painted white round the sides.’

‘D’you think it was an American car?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘I don’t know, sir. I was watching the two men rather than the car.’

‘Motor cars have a number on them. Did you happen to see it?’ asked Marriott.

‘No, I’m sorry, sir. I never thought of that.’

‘What did these men look like?’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t get a good look at them, what with the street lights being out because of the war. But like I said, they seemed to be rough-looking characters, and they were only wearing jackets and trousers as far as I could see. No overcoats.’ Again Partridge paused. ‘On the other hand, I think one of ’em had one of them reefer jackets on. And they had something round the bottom half of their faces, a scarf possibly. Oh, and they both had cloth caps on, pulled well down over their eyes.’

‘Had you heard anything before you saw these men running away?’ asked Hardcastle. ‘The sound of someone breaking in, for instance? Or voices?’

‘No. As I said, the wife and me had been having a drink and chatting just before I crossed to check on the curtains, and that the windows were closed on account of the air raid.’

Hardcastle failed to see the logic of that, but made no comment in case Partridge returned to the subject of air raids and curtains again. ‘Thank you, Mr Partridge,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a great help. I’ll have an officer call round later in the day to take a written statement from you. Unless you’re prepared to make one now.’

‘Yes, why not, sir? I doubt I’ll get much sleep tonight. But at least I’ll have a half-day today, it being a Saturday.’

‘Get one of those two officers up here to take a statement from Mr Partridge, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘And make it Watkins rather than Catto.’

‘Yes, sir.’ In Marriott’s view Catto was a good detective and he could never understand why the DDI did not share that opinion. But it was probably because Catto appeared to lose his self-confidence whenever he was in Hardcastle’s presence.

Returning to Reuben Gosling’s shop, Marriott dispatched Watkins to take Partridge’s statement and then he and Hardcastle began to look around.

‘There’s quite a lot of blood on this showcase, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘It’s likely