Hardcastle's Quandary

ONE

On the whole, the month of March 1927 had been a miserable one, the weather changeable, the temperature fluctuating between a bare forty degrees Fahrenheit and the mid-sixties. And it rained and rained.

On this Wednesday morning – it was the thirtieth of March – heavy rain bounced off the windowsill of Divisional Detective Inspector Ernest Hardcastle’s office on the first floor of Cannon Row police station in Westminster. In a fit of ill temper, Hardcastle slammed the window shut and, crossing to the fireplace, put another knob of coal on, making a mental note to speak to the station officer about the duty constable’s failings in this regard. But it was not the rain or that the station constable had omitted to make up Hardcastle’s fire that was irritating him.

This morning, he was wearing a pair of new shoes, and they were pinching. And if that was not bad enough, the shoes, his spats, his socks and the lower part of his trousers had been soaked through while he waited for the tram to bring him from Kennington to Westminster. This particularly irritated him as he took pride in his appearance, and his wife always ensured that there was a clean shirt ready for him every day. Although a man of ample build and only an inch above the five feet eight inches demanded by the police, he was extremely agile. His Kitchener-style moustache was always neatly trimmed, as was his greying hair.

But his mood was about to be made even worse.

‘Excuse me, sir.’ Detective Sergeant Charles Marriott, the first-class sergeant in charge of the junior detectives, appeared in Hardcastle’s office doorway. Smartly dressed, his chiselled features and handsome bearing always made women afford him a second glance, but he was happily married to Lorna, a strikingly beautiful, tall and slender blonde, the mother of the couple’s two children, although they could hardly be called children any more. James was eighteen and had already decided to become a barrister, and his sister, Doreen, was a sixteen-year-old young woman who showed all the signs of being as much of a beauty as her mother.

‘If you’re going to ask me if your promotion’s come through yet, Marriott, the answer’s no, it hasn’t,’ said Hardcastle, reaching for his pipe and beginning to fill it with his favourite St Bruno tobacco. Marriott had been selected for advancement to the rank of detective inspector some months previously, but promotion in the Metropolitan Police was painfully slow, and vacancies depended upon officers either retiring or dying in service. However, those above Marriott seemed intent upon staying for ever and, despite the ravages of police duty, seemed a remarkably healthy lot with but one or two exceptions. And it was one of those exceptions that was about to saddle Hardcastle with another murder investigation.

‘No, of course not, sir.’ On almost every occasion that Marriott appeared in the DDI’s office, Hardcastle would make the same comment, but Marriott knew that the DDI would tell him the moment the memorandum arrived from Commissioner’s Office, if for no better reason than he would expect Marriott to buy a celebratory drink for him and the other two detective inspectors on A Division. ‘Mr Wensley’s clerk just telephoned, sir. Mr Wensley sends his compliments and would like to see you at your earliest convenience.’

‘I wonder what he wants,’ mumbled Hardcastle, as he took his bowler hat and umbrella from the stand in the corner of his office. When the Chief Constable CID asked to see you ‘at your earliest convenience’, it meant immediately. And being the divisional detective inspector in charge of the CID for the A or Whitehall Division, Hardcastle’s office was only across the road from New Scotland Yard where Frederick Wensley had his office, but it was one of Hardcastle’s eccentricities that he would never be seen outside his police station without his bowler hat and umbrella.

One of the drawbacks of this close proximity to the Yard was that Hardcastle was far too handy for any odd job that happened to be going. Apart from that, Wensley, in common with many detectives who had served in the East End of London, believed that the Central London divisions were soft postings.

‘By the way, sir, have you seen the paper this morning?’

Hardcastle stared at his sergeant over his recently acquired half-moon spectacles. His wife, Alice, had long been a critic of the wire-framed glasses he wore for reading, and he had, at last, relented. ‘What are you talking about now, Marriott?’ he asked patiently. It was noticeable that since Marriott’s selection for promotion, the DDI’s attitude towards him had softened, albeit slightly.

‘Segrave’s done it, sir.’

‘Who the hell is Segrave, and what’s he done that’s so important he gets himself in the newspaper?’ demanded Hardcastle. ‘He’s not a CID officer, is he?’ The DDI prided himself on knowing the names of all the senior CID officers in the Metropolitan Police, and he had not heard of one named Segrave.

‘Major Henry Segrave, sir,’ continued Marriott. ‘He broke the land speed record yesterday at Daytona Beach in Florida. The report says that he achieved over two hundred miles an hour, the first man to do so.’

‘Oh, that Segrave,’ said Hardcastle, who hated being caught out, especially by a junior rank. ‘I wonder why he bothered. He’ll finish up killing himself like that Parry Thomas did at Pendine Sands a few weeks ago.’ (Three years later, Hardcastle’s prediction came true when Segrave died in an accident on Lake Windermere just after creating a new water speed record.) ‘It seems that we go too fast as it is, Marriott. Why do we need to go any faster? I really do think that the world’s passing me by. What’s more, I don’t know half the detectives we’ve got next door now that Keeler, Lipton and Wilmot have been posted or have retired. The new men all joined the Job after the war. And now Mr Wensley’s clerk telephones when he used to walk across here and deliver messages in person. It’s impolite, that’s what it is. Perhaps it’s time I thought about retirement. And before you get too excited that there might be a vacancy in the offing, I’m not thinking of going just yet.’

‘Of course not, sir.’ Marriott restricted himself to that mild and minimal response. He recognized the onset of one of Hardcastle’s diatribes and knew better than to encourage further outpourings.

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

‘Yes, Ernie.’ Wensley turned from the window and, with a wave of his hand, invited Hardcastle to take a seat. Immaculately dressed, the chief constable wore a winged collar, even though fashion nowadays favoured the double collar, and a pearl pin adorned his silk necktie. Known to the newspaper industry as ‘Ace’ on account of his detective prowess, he was referred to irreverently as ‘Elephant’ by the officers under his command because of the size of his nose. ‘I want you to read this letter,’ he said, handing Hardcastle several sheets of paper. ‘As you’ll see, the writer is the Reverend Percy Stoner, the vicar of Southfork, which is somewhere in Norfolk.’

Donning his new half-moon spectacles, Hardcastle quickly scanned the letter, and then glanced up. ‘What does this have to do with me, sir?’ he asked, although he was certain he was about to find out.

‘Arthur Fitnam has gone sick again, Ernie,’ said Wensley, ‘and his deputy is up to his eyes in a fraud case. As this job is centred on Ditton on V Division, I’m going to ask you to take it on. Frankly, given the state of his health, I don’t think that Arthur will last in the Job too much longer. He’s bound to get cast if he doesn’t die first.’ It was well known in the Force that Arthur Fitnam, V Division’s DDI, had been unwell for some time and the consensus among the unqualified was that he was suffering from cancer.

‘Very good, sir.’ Hardcastle was unhappy at being given a task that was so far from Westminster, but a request from the Chief Constable CID was in fact an order. ‘May I keep this letter, sir?’

‘Of course, Ernie, and attach it to your report to the Director of Public Prosecutions.’ It was a typical Wensley comment and implied not only that there been a murder but that Hardcastle would solve it.

‘Marriott, come in my office,’ shouted Hardcastle, as he passed the open door of the detectives’ room.

Hurriedly donning his jacket, Marriott followed his DDI.

‘You needn’t look so expectant, Marriott. Mr Wensley didn’t send for me to announce that you were about to become an officer and a gentleman.’ Hardcastle handed Marriott the Reverend Percy Stoner’s letter. ‘In short, Marriott,’ he continued, ‘the reverend gentleman thinks his nephew’s been murdered.’

‘Where do we start, sir?’

‘In Norfolk, Marriott, obviously. It’s where the clergyman lives. Find out how we get there.’

Marriott returned within minutes. ‘Train from Liverpool Street station, sir. According to Bradshaw’s Guide, it will take about two hours to get to Norwich, and I’m told there’s a good bus service from Norwich to Southfork.’

‘A bus!’ exclaimed Hardcastle, his face expressing horror. ‘I’ve told you before, Marriott, that a DDI does not travel by bus to investigate a murder. I can see that you’re not thinking like an inspector yet.’ He shook his head. ‘We’ll take a cab from Norwich to this clergyman’s place, Marriott. Good grief, man, you’ve worked with me long enough to know my habits.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll make a telephone call to arrange an appointment. Provided, of course, that the vicar’s connected.’

‘D’you mean you can actually telephone to Norfolk, Marriott?’ Hardcastle stared at his sergeant in wonderment.

‘Oh, yes, sir. In fact, it’s even possible to telephone New York now, but it costs fifteen pounds for three minutes.’

‘Fifteen pounds?’ Hardcastle laughed. ‘Who the hell would want to telephone New York anyway, Marriott?’ he asked, before turning to more important matters. ‘See you at Liverpool Street station at half past eight sharp tomorrow morning, and when you’re buying your newspaper, get me a Daily Mail. I don’t suppose my copy will have been delivered by the time I leave home.’

Within minutes of his arrival at Norwich Thorpe railway station, Hardcastle had condemned Norfolk as a flat, uninteresting and inhospitable place.

‘See if you can find a cabbie who knows where this Southfork place is, Marriott.’ Hardcastle was clearly not in the best of moods.

To exacerbate the DDI’s increasingly bad temper, the taxi was a Vauxhall saloon car that doubtless had many miles on the clock, and clearly needed some work doing on its springing. The cab driver appeared to be at least seventy years of age, and was wrapped up in a heavy overcoat, a woollen scarf wound around his neck, and a cloth cap pulled down so firmly that he could only just see beneath the ragged peak. As the journey progressed, it became evident that he had serious adenoidal problems and sniffed for most of the half an hour it took to arrive at the vicarage where the Reverend Percy Stoner lived.

Although the village of Southfork was quite a distance from the coast, the angle of the trees testified to the strength of the winds that frequently blew in from the North Sea. The vicarage was a symmetrically built large stone dwelling with bay windows on either side of a porched front door, and three sizeable dormer windows on the first floor.

‘These here clerks in holy orders do all right for themselves, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, as he alighted from the taxi and stretched his aching limbs.

Marriott knocked at the door, but it was several minutes before a woman appeared. Some sixty or so years of age, she wore a white apron over a black bombazine dress which, contrary to the current fashion, almost reached the floor. Her iron-grey hair was gathered up at the back of her head and held in place by an unattractive metal claw.

‘Yes?’ The woman’s greeting was far from welcoming.

‘I’ve come to see the vicar,’ said Hardcastle.

‘Oh, have you indeed? Well, I doubt he’ll be able to fit you in on account of him having some important visitors from London.’ The woman glared suspiciously at the two ‘foreigners’ on the doorstep.

Hardcastle was about to point out that he and Marriott were the important visitors from London when the vicar appeared. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Rudge, I’ll deal with these gentlemen.’

With a toss of the head, Mrs Rudge disappeared, presumably to the kitchen.

‘Mr Hardcastle, is it? And Mr Marriott? I’m Percy Stoner,’ said the clergyman, extending a hand. He was probably in his late fifties, but his wispy, greying hair and stooped posture made him appear much older. His green cardigan and brown corduroy trousers – strangely at odds with his clerical collar – had clearly seen better days, and Hardcastle wondered if he was unmarried. His own wife would make her disapproval strongly known if he ever walked about dressed like that.

‘Good morning, Vicar.’ Hardcastle shook hands with Stoner, as did Marriott.

‘Come along in, Mr Hardcastle, and you too, Mr Marriott. It’s too miserable a day to be hanging about on the doorstep. Mind you, it’s a lovely place to live in the summertime,’ he added, as though justifying having accepted the living of Southfork.

Stoner led the way into a cosy sitting room. There were several comfortable armchairs and a blazing log fire. A large tabby cat was asleep on a silk Persian rug in front of the fireplace but woke up to inspect the newcomers. Apparently satisfied that they posed no threat to its well-being, the animal stretched, yawned and promptly went to sleep again.

Stoner invited the two detectives to take a seat. ‘If you’re anything like the local policemen—’ he began, but was obliged to break off by the onset of a hacking cough.

Hardcastle was about to protest at being likened to what he imagined was a police force comprising, for the most part, ex-farmhands and yokels, when the vicar, now recovered from his coughing fit, continued.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Stoner. ‘It’s the climate here in Norfolk, you know.’ He paused to blow his nose with a colourful handkerchief before going on. ‘I was about to say that if you’re anything like the local policemen, you’ll not be averse to a drop of Scotch whisky, particularly on a day like today. It’s a chill wind that comes off the fens, you know.’

‘Most kind, Vicar,’ murmured Hardcastle, mentally revising his opinion of the clergyman.

Stoner poured malt whisky into three crystal tumblers. ‘I take it you’ll not be wanting water or soda,’ he said, in a manner intended to brook no argument.

Hardcastle took a sip of whisky and nodded his appreciation. ‘I understand from the letter you wrote to Scotland Yard that you’re concerned about your nephew, Vicar,’ he said, determined to get on with the reason for his visit.

‘Indeed, I am,’ said Stoner, his face assuming a grave expression. ‘It was bad enough worrying about him during the war, but I didn’t expect to be doing so once it was over.’

‘It would be useful if you’d outline what gives you such grave concern, sir,’ said Marriott.

‘My nephew Guy was a captain in the Royal Field Artillery during the war. In fact, I think the RFA and the Royal Garrison Artillery have now been joined together into one regiment that’s called the Royal Artillery.’

‘Yes, that’s correct,’ said Marriott, glancing up from his note-taking. ‘In 1924.’

Hardcastle said nothing but was secretly pleased that the clergyman was so pedantic. A man with such an eye for detail and accuracy was likely to give a reliable account of the events troubling him.

‘After the war was over, Guy and another officer set up in business in Ditton in Surrey.’

‘Doing what, sir?’ asked Marriott.

‘It was a chicken farm, but unfortunately they couldn’t make a go of it.’

‘It happened to quite a few of them,’ said Hardcastle, not unsympathetically. Too many ex-officers had spent their gratuities and savings on a chicken farm without having explored the difficulties or the market, and all too many of them foundered, often within weeks.

‘But then, according to Guy, they decided to turn it into a conventional arable farm, but he didn’t say how he was going to go about it. As far as I recall, he had no experience of farming, but maybe his partner did.’

‘Was it a success?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Stoner, placing his hands together in an attitude of supplication. But then he paused. ‘Mind you, Inspector, that was his intention, according to the last letter he wrote. However, I don’t know whether this farm business actually came to fruition. As I implied just now, Guy never struck me as having the qualities needed for farming.’

‘You went on to suggest in your letter that you thought some danger may have befallen your nephew.’

‘I didn’t suggest it, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Stoner sharply. ‘I wrote that I was convinced he’d been murdered.’

‘But what possible grounds can you have for coming to that conclusion? Did you ever visit your nephew in Ditton?’

‘No, I must admit that I’m getting a little too old to make such a tortuous journey.’ Stoner drank a good measure of his whisky and leaned back in his chair. ‘Guy always wrote to me once a week without fail, Inspector, even when he was in the army and stationed in Flanders. But when I’d heard nothing for a month, I began to worry. It was so unlike him. We liked to keep in touch since his parents are both dead.’

‘When did they die?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘In December 1914,’ said Stoner, ‘when the Germans shelled Hartlepool. It was where they were living,’ he added unnecessarily. ‘Rather ironic when you think about it, that it should have happened when Guy was at the Front. In the Ypres Salient, as a matter of fact. Now the family comprises just him and me.’

Hardcastle remembered the audacious attack by German battleships that began, without warning, at just after eight o’clock one morning in mid-December. Eighty-six people were killed, and more than four hundred wounded.

‘You say he went into partnership, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘Do you know the name of that partner?’

‘Yes, I do, but I’ll make absolutely sure I’ve got it right. At my age, it’s always dangerous to rely too much on one’s memory.’ Stoner crossed the room to a bureau, and after ferreting among a collection of loose papers, he produced a small notebook. ‘Ah, here we are. It was a Captain Holroyd, Rupert Holroyd, who was also in the Royal Field Artillery.’

‘Did you ever meet the man Holroyd, sir?’ asked Marriott.

‘No, never.’

‘To get back to the question I asked just now, Vicar,’ said Hardcastle, ‘what caused you to believe your nephew may have been murdered?’

‘I’m not a rich man, Inspector – few clergymen are – but my brother left a decent sum to me when he was killed in the raid on Hartlepool that I mentioned just now, and rightly left his son, Guy, the bulk of his estate. He’d been a successful industrialist in the north-east, and there was a large memorial service for him when he was killed. He was an alderman as well, so all the town council were there. However, none of that’s important. The point is that a week ago I received a letter purporting to come from Guy, but it was not in his handwriting. The excuse was that he had injured his hand attempting to put out a fire at this farm in Ditton, and he’d asked Rupert Holroyd to write the letter at his dictation. In the letter, he said that the insurance company had declined to pay their claim and they were on their beam ends. He asked if I could help him out on this occasion. Frankly, I found it difficult to believe. Guy had always had a head for figures, and I don’t think he’d have allowed himself to get into such a parlous state.’

‘What did