Hardcastle's Traitors (25 page)

Hardcastle spent the next few minutes in silence, filling his pipe and studying the butler. It did little to alleviate Henwood's fear of what was likely to happen to him.

‘Well, my lad,' began Hardcastle, ‘you're in Queer Street and no mistake.'

‘I haven't done anything wrong, guv'nor,' protested Henwood. His hands, fingers intertwined, rested on the scarred wooden tabletop, continuously clenching and unclenching.

Hardcastle scoffed. ‘Did you hear that, Marriott? Our Mr Henwood's done nothing wrong.' He shot forward in his chair. ‘Furnishing a false reference in order to obtain your present post, for a start. Secondly, obstructing me in the execution of my duty by telling Villiers that I was keen to have a chat with him, as a result of which he ran away.' He leaned back again and lit his pipe. ‘But that's only minor stuff, you see,' he said, waving his match to extinguish the flame, and emitting a plume of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘If I take it into my head to charge your master with a serious criminal offence, you'll likely finish up next to him gripping the dock rail at the Old Bailey charged with conspiracy.'

‘What conspiracy?' asked Henwood desperately, clearly shocked by this latest threat.

‘That rather depends on which particular criminal offence I decide to charge Villiers with, don't it?' said Hardcastle airily. He glanced at the small window behind Henwood as though giving the matter his immediate and weighty consideration. ‘But I haven't quite made up my mind yet.' In truth, he had no idea whether Sinclair Villiers had committed an offence at all, but his gut instinct told him that the châtelain of Flood Street had been up to no good. ‘However, Henwood, I might be able to make your problems all disappear if you're straight with me.'

‘What d'you want from me, guv'nor?' pleaded the anguished butler, at last sensing a vestige of hope that he may escape punishment. His three months in Pentonville prison had terrified him, and he had no desire to repeat the experience.

‘Your master went away quite often, didn't he?'

‘Yes, he did.'

‘What for?'

‘I don't know, sir, and that's the God's honest truth.'

‘He never let on where he was going?' asked Hardcastle.

‘Never, sir.'

‘Or when he'd return?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Seems a damned funny way to treat his staff, don't you think, Marriott?'

‘Indeed, sir. Not like the well-regulated houses we've been accustomed to calling on.'

‘That's true. Sergeant Marriott and me have been to some of the finest houses in the country, Henwood. Homes of peers of the realm, knights of the shires, proper gentry, and none of 'em would ever clear off without telling their butler where they was going or when they'd be back. It's only common courtesy, you see. I never go out without telling my staff where I'm off to. Ain't that the case, Marriott?'

‘Yes, sir, definitely.' Marriott decided that now would not be a good time to argue with a chief who never revealed his plans to anyone but his sergeant. And not always then.

‘Now, what about this here Mrs Wheeler who lives in Worthing? Go there often, did he?'

‘I think so, sir.'

‘So he did tell you where he was going.' Hardcastle stared at Henwood accusingly. ‘Don't lie to me, lad.'

‘Not directly, sir. He did say he was going to Worthing on one occasion and had to get the car filled up with petrol. I did a bit of nosing around while he was away and found Mrs Wheeler's address in his little book. So, I thought to myself, she's his lady friend.'

‘I see. You did a bit of nosing around when your master was away, did you? Looking for some spare cash, was you? Like you did when you got nicked the last time, I suppose.'

‘No, it wasn't like that, sir. I just wondered where he'd gone in case I needed to get in touch with him.'

‘Very commendable,' said Hardcastle sarcastically. ‘And that's how you managed to get in touch with him this time, I suppose.'

‘What does Mr Villiers do for a living, Henwood?' asked Marriott.

‘A living, sir?' Henwood was disconcerted by the sudden change of both question and questioner.

‘It's a simple enough query,' said Marriott.

‘He doesn't do anything, sir. Mr Villiers is a gentleman of independent means.'

‘I'm not too sure about the “gentleman” bit,' murmured Hardcastle.

‘And where do these independent means come from?' asked Marriott.

‘I've no idea, sir. I think he must invest in stocks and shares, and that sort of thing. I've heard him on the telephone once or twice, discussing stock options and the like.'

‘Did you find any evidence of this when you was doing your nosing about?' asked Hardcastle.

‘Not really, sir. It was just sort of an assumption on my part.'

‘How often did Mr Villiers go away on these jaunts of his, Henwood?' asked Marriott, taking up the questioning again.

‘About once a month, and usually at the weekends. Mind you, he's been away midweek, once or twice, as well.'

‘Are you sure of that, Henwood?'

‘Yes, sir. You see, I keep a journal. All butlers do.'

‘Ah, now we're getting to the truth of the matter. You never told me you kept a journal.'

‘Most butlers do, sir.'

‘Is that a fact? So, where is this journal?'

‘At Flood Street, sir, in my pantry.'

Hardcastle spent a few moments lighting his pipe again. ‘Send someone round to Flood Street a bit tout de suite, Marriott, and tell him to pick up this journal of Henwood's. Frederick, the new butler, will show him where to find it. While he's there, he can ask the footman if he knows where Villiers has gone; see if he's more forthcoming now that our Mr Henwood ain't there. And tell the officer to take a cab.'

Marriott returned five minutes later. ‘I've sent Wood, sir.'

‘Good. Now, Henwood, this here journal of yours will show every time that Villiers pushed off on one of his little journeys, will it?'

‘Oh, yes, sir. I keep accurate records.'

‘And you've no idea where Villiers is at this moment?'

‘No, sir. I thought he'd gone to Worthing again, but you said he wasn't there.'

‘Of course he wasn't there. And you know he wasn't because you'd warned him off,' snapped Hardcastle. ‘Now then, what d'you know about this Mrs Wheeler?'

‘Nothing, sir. I've never met the lady.'

‘And she never came to Flood Street?'

‘Not to my knowledge, sir.'

‘Not to your knowledge? But I thought you knew everything that went on in the household you supervise.'

‘Not everything, sir,' said the anguished Henwood.

‘Put him down, Marriott, and we'll have another chat with him when Wood gets back with this precious journal.'

‘How long are you going to keep me here?' asked Henwood.

‘As long as it takes to get this matter sorted out,' said Hardcastle. ‘Or until I've decided what to charge you with. In which case you'll be up in front of the beak the following morning.'

Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood returned to the police station at three o'clock. He made straight for the DDI's office and handed over the journal.

‘Did Frederick have anything useful to say, Wood?'

‘No, sir. I asked him where Villiers had gone, but he claimed that he didn't know.'

‘Either he doesn't know, or like Henwood is too scared to say. Anyway, ask Sergeant Marriott to step in.'

‘Is Henwood's journal likely to be of any use, sir?' asked Marriott, as he came through the door of Hardcastle's office.

‘Remains to be seen, Marriott.' Hardcastle flipped through a few pages of Henwood's neatly written book. ‘I think I'll have a word with Mr Quinn about this. If Villiers's days away at Worthing tie up with the bogus Mrs Wheeler's trips to Shoreham harbour, we might be getting somewhere.'

‘But d'you think that that will get us any nearer finding out who murdered Gosling and Stein, sir?' Once again, Marriott was concerned that the DDI had lost sight of why A Division detectives had become involved in a Special Branch enquiry in the first place. And were spending more time on it than on the Gosling murder.

‘Of course I do, Marriott. I've every reason to think that the two murders we're dealing with are linked to Villiers and the woman at Worthing.'

Marriott failed to see the connection, but he did not have the DDI's experience. ‘By the way, sir, there was one telephone number in Villiers's address book that might be of interest.'

‘Address book? What address book, Marriott?'

‘The one we found at his house, sir.'

‘Oh, that one. Yes, well, what about it?'

‘I'm awaiting details from the post office, sir. To discover the name and address of the subscriber.'

‘We'll have a word with whoever it is when we have a moment, Marriott. Remind me.'

‘Might I ask what we hope to learn from them, sir?'

‘They might be able to tell us something about Sinclair Villiers. Something we don't know already.'

For ten minutes Superintendent Quinn made a careful study of Henwood's journal. He then drew a Manila folder across his desk, and spent a further five minutes comparing its contents with the entries in the butler's day book.

‘Interesting, Mr Hardcastle.' Quinn leaned back with a satisfied smile on his face. ‘My detectives have made a number of discoveries that I'm prepared to share with you.' He paused. ‘In the strictest confidence, of course.'

‘Of course, sir,' murmured Hardcastle.

‘For some time now we've been interested in a Spanish freighter that comes into Shoreham harbour about once a month. Looking at Henwood's journal, it would seem that Villiers travelled to Worthing, presumably to the woman's house, also once a month. It's an interesting coincidence, Mr Hardcastle, and if Henwood is to be believed, Villiers turns up at Worthing a day or two before the Spaniard docks at Shoreham.'

‘The maid Sarah said she called a cab for her mistress once a month to go to Shoreham, sir.'

‘Too much of a coincidence for my liking,' said Quinn. ‘I think I'll speak to the Admiralty. It's time we had the Royal Navy keeping an eye on this Spaniard.'

Hardcastle was amazed that Quinn talked so blithely of summoning the assistance of the Royal Navy in much the same way as he would have sent for a constable.

Quinn looked up in time to see Hardcastle's expression of astonishment. ‘When the security of the state is at risk, Mr Hardcastle, anything I need is at my disposal.'

I
t was at nine o'clock on Thursday the twentieth of January, almost a week after their last meeting, that Superintendent Quinn sent for Hardcastle again.

‘I have received a signal from the captain of His Majesty's Ship
Derwent
, Mr Hardcastle, a destroyer patrolling the English Channel. A boarding party stopped and searched the Swedish freighter SS
Carlson
in the Strait of Dover just off the South Foreland at four thirty a.m. today. It was a routine search to check whether the vessel – the Swedes being a neutral nation – was carrying any weapons of war. The skipper of the
Carlson
informed the officer in charge of the boarding party that they were carrying only timber and this was verified. The
Carlson
's captain also said that he was docking at Shoreham at approximately two thirty p.m. today.'

‘Does this tally with the entries in Henwood's journal, sir?'

‘It does indeed. On each occasion during the last six months when the
Carlson
docked at Shoreham, Villiers went to Worthing the previous day and, it seems, the bogus Mrs Wheeler booked a taxi to take her to Shoreham on the day of the ship's arrival.'

‘Not a coincidence, then, sir,' said Hardcastle.

‘If it is, Mr Hardcastle, it's the sort of coincidence I like,' said Quinn with a wry smile.

‘Are you going down there, sir?'

‘Yes, I am. And I suggest that you and your officers accompany me and my men. If Villiers appears there today, as I suspect he may, you'll have a chance to interrogate him with regard to the murders you're investigating.' Quinn paused to stroke his beard. ‘On the other hand, if Villiers is a participant in some act of espionage, any such charges will take precedence over murder.'

‘Of course, sir.' Hardcastle was not unduly concerned about the legal niceties of the matter; if Villiers was found guilty of either spying or murder, he would finish up on the scaffold.

Quinn took out his watch and studied it. ‘I suggest we meet here again in one hour's time. I have a number of motor vehicles at my disposal, and they should get us to Shoreham in good time to set up an observation.' He paused. ‘DI Strange and DS Shaughnessy have been at Shoreham harbour for some days now, and I shall have several of my other officers with me.'

That Quinn had arranged to keep Shoreham harbour under observation for some days surprised Hardcastle, and he reluctantly concluded that Special Branch officers were better detectives than he had originally given them credit for.

Hardcastle had decided that it would be sufficient for Detective Sergeants Marriott and Wood to accompany him to Shoreham harbour, and at ten o'clock the three of them assembled in Superintendent Quinn's office.

The journey, due south from London, took a little under two hours. By midday the detectives were in a position in the harbour to have a good sight of where the SS
Carlson
would dock, but sufficiently well concealed to ensure that they were not spotted by either Villiers or the woman using the name of Mrs Wheeler. Always assuming, of course, that they arrived when the
Carlson
did.

The Swedish freighter docked on time and the stevedores began the onerous task of unloading her. Of Villiers and the woman there was no sign.