Hardcastle's Traitors (20 page)

‘I'm a police officer, Rabbi. Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.'

‘Come in, gentlemen, come in,' said Rosner warmly. ‘It's too cold a day to stand talking on the doorstep. The cold gets right into your bones, especially when you reach my age.' He led the two detectives into a comfortable sitting room furnished with armchairs and several occasional tables. On one of the tables there was a chess set, the ivory pieces positioned as if a game was already in progress. There were pictures on the walls and over the mantelshelf a framed Hebrew scripture. A fire glowed in the grate. ‘Please, tell me how I may help you, Inspector.'

‘I'm wondering if you can be of assistance to me in a matter I'm investigating, Rabbi,' said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott accepted Rosner's invitation to take a seat.

‘If I possibly can.' Rosner relaxed in a chair opposite the DDI, and selected a curved Meerschaum from a pipe rack on a side table. ‘One of my sins is an addiction to tobacco, Inspector. I hope it doesn't offend you.'

‘Not at all,' said Hardcastle, taking out his own pipe. ‘I am too.'

‘Excellent,' said Rosner, and offered the DDI a jar of tobacco. Once the DDI had taken his fill, the rabbi offered the jar to Marriott.

‘He smokes cigarettes,' said Hardcastle. ‘I keep telling him they'll do him no good.'

The rabbi laughed. ‘If that's his only sin, he'll not come to much harm, Mr Hardcastle.'

When both men had their pipes alight, Hardcastle resumed the conversation. ‘I'm investigating the murder of a man called Peter Stein who lived over Percy Dyer's chandler's shop in Bow Road, not far from the police station. The murder occurred early in the morning on Friday last. Inspector Sawyer suggested that you might've known the man.' Sawyer had said no such thing when Marriott had telephoned him, but Hardcastle had no intention of telling Rosner that Sinclair Villiers had unwittingly led them to the rabbi's door.

‘Is Mr Sawyer not dealing with that case, then?' queried Rosner.

‘No. But only because it would appear to be connected with another murder I'm dealing with.'

‘A sad business, Inspector,' said Rosner, shaking his head, ‘but the world is full of wickedness these days. It seems that this wretched war has given people a licence to kill their fellow man. I sometimes wonder when it will all end. But, mark my words, the world will be no better for it, once it's all over.'

‘Did you know Stein, Rabbi?' asked Hardcastle, declining to be drawn into a discussion about the effects of the war.

‘Alas no, although I knew of him. He was of the Jewish faith, but he was never to be seen in the synagogue.' Rosner stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Regrettably, there is nothing I can tell you of this man.'

‘As I said just now, we believe that his murder was connected to another murder I'm investigating, the murder of Reuben Gosling.'

‘I don't know that name, Inspector. Was he a local man?'

‘No, he was the owner of a jewellery and pawnbroking business in the Vauxhall Bridge Road in Westminster and was murdered on New Year's Eve.' Hardcastle, not usually circumspect, realized that he had to be so on this occasion. ‘The murderers stole a car from Chelsea belonging to a man called—' He broke off and flicked his fingers. ‘What was the man's name, Marriott?'

‘Sinclair Villiers, sir,' said Marriott, playing along with Hardcastle's little pretence of forgetfulness.

‘Ah yes, that's the fellow.'

‘Sinclair Villiers, you say?' said Rosner, expressing genuine surprise and leaning forward in his chair. ‘But I know Sinclair. Is there some suggestion that he was involved in these terrible events?'

‘Good heavens no,' said Hardcastle, waving a deprecating hand. ‘It was merely that his car was stolen from outside his house and used in the robbery, but what a strange coincidence that you should know him. I take it he's a friend of yours.'

‘Yes, indeed. An old friend. He visits me often to play chess.' Rosner waved a casual hand towards the chessboard. ‘I have to say that he's very good at it, too. Only rarely do I manage to beat him. As a matter of fact, he was here yesterday evening, but he didn't mention anything about this murder. But he beat me twice with a fool's mate.' The rabbi paused to rekindle his pipe. ‘Sinclair is a Jew, of course, but then,' he added with a wry smile, ‘so are most of my best friends.'

‘I think he said that he spent New Year's Eve with you, Rabbi.' Hardcastle took a chance on that being the case. ‘Another game of chess, was it?'

Rosner thought about that. ‘Not your New Year, Inspector. The Jewish New Year is in September. The thirty-first of December doesn't mean a great deal to orthodox Jews, although some members of my faith take advantage of celebrating two new years.' The rabbi laughed. ‘But that's Jews for you,' he added, mocking his own religion.

‘Oh well, I suppose he must've been celebrating somewhere else.'

‘Probably,' said Rosner. ‘In fact, yesterday was the first time I'd seen Sinclair since just after Yom Kippur, and that was last September. I don't know where he'd been over your New Year; away for a holiday perhaps.'

‘Well, thank you for your help, Rabbi,' said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott stood up. ‘And thank you for the tobacco.'

‘If I hear of anything about Peter Stein is there any way I can get in touch with you, Inspector?' Rosner stood up too, and shook hands with the two detectives.

‘My sergeant will give you the telephone number of the police station at Cannon Row, Rabbi. I'd be grateful to hear of anything you learn.'

It was quite a change for Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood to be assigned to an ‘out-of-town' job, and he wasted no time in catching a train to Brighton on the south coast. There was a chill wind blowing when he arrived at just after midday. His only regret was that the assignment would have been more pleasant had it been midsummer and he could have taken a stroll along the beach.

The first surprise to greet Wood when he walked out of Brighton railway station into Queens Road was the sight of a line of German soldiers. Attired in grey uniforms and round hats encircled with red bands, they were chained together and were being marched along the street.

‘What's that all about?' asked Wood of a policeman standing nearby.

‘Prisoners of war, mate. They're on their way to the POW camp at Shoreham.'

‘Are they going to march there?'

‘It's only about six miles. It'll do 'em good.' The policeman laughed. ‘You didn't think we were going to give 'em a ride in a charabanc, did you?'

‘No, I suppose not,' said Wood, and joined in the Brighton policeman's laughter. ‘Can you direct me to the nick?'

‘It's about three-quarters of a mile that way,' said the policeman, pointing. ‘It's in a street called Bartholomews, next to the town hall. Is there anything I can do to save you the walk?'

‘No, I'm in the Job, Metropolitan. I've got an enquiry to make of the CID.'

‘Good luck, mate. You might find 'em awake. If they're not in the local boozer, that is.'

Wood eventually found the police station that was immediately beneath the headquarters of the Brighton constabulary.

‘Yes, sir? Can I help you?' asked the bearded desk sergeant.

‘I'm Detective Sergeant Wood, Metropolitan. I've come down to make some enquiries into a couple who are of interest to us in connection with a murder.'

‘Oh yes. And who might they be?'

‘A Joseph Morgan and a Sarah Gosling, although she might be calling herself Sarah Morgan now. It's a bit of a long shot because they were supposed to have moved here about nine years ago.'

‘Morgan, Morgan,' said the Brighton sergeant, savouring the name. ‘Rings a vague bell, mate. A murder, you say?'

‘Yes, we're looking into the murder of a Reuben Gosling who was Sarah's husband until she ran away with this bloke Morgan.'

The sergeant chuckled. ‘Well, they're bound to be here somewhere. Brighton's always the place that people choose for a bit of jig-a-jig on the sly, if that's what it was all about. I'll have a look through our books.' He lifted the flap in the counter. ‘Come on through and take the weight off your feet.'

Wood sat down on a hard-backed chair while the sergeant began a search of the station's numerous record books.

‘Got it,' said the sergeant triumphantly. ‘I knew the name meant something. Here we are.' Running his finger down a page of the daily record, he came across the entry. ‘On Wednesday the eighth of September last year, we received a message from F Division of the Metropolitan Police asking us to inform Mrs Sarah Morgan that Joseph Morgan had been killed in a Zeppelin raid. He was staying in a lodging house in Earls Court Road, London S.W., when it was hit by a bomb.'

‘That sounds like the couple I'm looking for,' said Wood. ‘What was Mrs Morgan's address at the time?'

‘Grove Street, mate. I'll jot it down for you.' The sergeant scribbled the details on a sheet of paper and handed it over. ‘Anything else I can help you with?'

‘You can tell me how to get there.'

‘Sure.' The sergeant took a street atlas from his desk drawer and pointed out the quickest way from the police station to Grove Street.

‘Thanks for your help,' said Wood. ‘I'll go round there and see what I can find.'

‘Hope you catch your killer. D'you think it was this Morgan chap?'

‘Couldn't've been,' said Wood. ‘It happened after Morgan was killed. Apart from telling Mrs Morgan that her first husband's been murdered, I don't really know what my guv'nor hopes me to find out by talking to the woman. But once he gets his teeth into a job like this one, he doesn't let go until he's got his man dancing on the hangman's trap.'

The sergeant laughed. ‘I've got a guv'nor like that,' he said.

The two-storied houses in Grove Street were terraced with only a narrow pavement separating them from the roadway. Eight or nine children were playing outside, most of whom, despite the cold weather, were inadequately clothed; some were even barefooted. An urchin with a bowling hoop flew past Wood, shouting some obscenity in the belief that he had right of way. But then some innate sense recognized Wood as a police officer. With a shout of ‘coppers', the boy and his cohorts disappeared.

Wood ascended the three steps to the front door of the house said by the Brighton sergeant to be Sarah Gosling's last known address.

From what the police had discovered so far, Sarah Gosling would now be in her mid-fifties, but the woman who answered the door appeared much older. Her grey hair was unkempt and hung around her shoulders in untidy rat's tails. She wore a cheap and fading black bombazine dress; it was a material that, thanks to Queen Victoria's prolonged period of mourning, remained unpopular even fifteen years after her death. But Wood presumed that Sarah Gosling was unable to afford anything else.

‘Mrs Gosling?' asked Wood, raising his bowler hat.

The woman emitted a scornful laugh. ‘I haven't been known by that name for nigh on ten years. I'm known in these parts as Mrs Morgan, Sarah Morgan. Anyway, who are you and what d'you want?'

‘I'm a police officer from London, madam. Detective Sergeant Wood of the Whitehall Division.'

‘And what might the police be wanting with me?'

‘I think it would be better if I came in, Mrs Morgan.'

‘Suit yourself,' said Sarah churlishly, and turned away, leaving Wood to close the door and follow her.

The parlour, a small, cold room on the front of the house was sparsely furnished. The empty fire grate had been filled with a fan of folded newspaper; it was evident that coal was a luxury Mrs Morgan could not afford. Wood decided against removing his overcoat.

‘I understand that you were once married to Reuben Gosling, Mrs Morgan.'

‘I still am, as far as I know,' said Sarah. ‘Anyway, what's it to you?'

‘I'm sorry to have to tell you that he was murdered on New Year's Eve.'

That momentous news received no immediate reaction other than a cold stare. ‘Have you come all this way just to tell me that?' asked Sarah eventually.

‘Not exactly,' said Wood. ‘I wondered if you knew of any reason why anyone should've wanted to kill him.'

‘Quite a few people, I should think,' was Sarah's surprising reply. ‘He was a bully and a skinflint, and he sailed a bit close to the wind,' she continued.

‘What d'you mean by that, Mrs Morgan?' asked Wood.

‘If you ask me, some of the stuff he had in the shop hadn't been honest come by, if you know what I mean. Any road, I couldn't stand it no more and that's why I left him. My Joe, God rest his soul, was the complete opposite. Always cheerful and always generous. And always ready to give me a good time when he was in funds. Mind you, things got a bit tight once the war started. People haven't got the money for the sort of stuff Joe was selling. He'd even begun going up London again to see how he'd fare up there. But he was killed in an air raid and left me flat broke.'

‘I understand you had a son,' said Wood.

‘Isaac,' said Sarah listlessly, and stared at the empty fireplace. ‘Haven't seen him in years. For all I know he could be dead and buried in France.' She pulled her shawl more closely around her shoulders. ‘Not that Isaac was the volunteering sort. Walked out his father's shadow did Isaac. Just as mean and just as spiteful. He might even be in prison, for all I know. And that'd come as no surprise.'

‘So, you've no idea where Isaac might be now, Mrs Morgan.'

‘No. Anyway, why d'you want to know all this?'

‘Because we're trying to find out who killed your husband,' said Wood.