Hardcastle's Traitors (9 page)

Hooking his umbrella over his left arm, Hardcastle solemnly raised his bowler hat in acknowledgement of the unwarranted salute accorded him by the Life Guards dismounted sentry. Household Cavalry sentries tended to salute anyone wearing a bowler hat, just to be on the safe side.

‘Good morning, Inspector.' Sergeant Cyril Glover was chief clerk to the assistant provost marshal, Lieutenant Colonel Ralph Frobisher of the Sherwood Foresters.

‘Good morning, Sergeant Glover,' said Hardcastle. ‘Is the colonel in?'

‘Yes, he is, Inspector. Go through.'

‘Good morning, Mr Hardcastle.' Frobisher stood up, skirted his desk and shook hands with the DDI and Marriott. ‘I take it you have another problem for me to solve,' he said, with a smile. The DDI usually presented him with a difficult problem. ‘Please take a seat, gentlemen.'

‘Indeed I have, Colonel.' Hardcastle rapidly outlined details of the murder he was investigating and related what Haydn Villiers had told him about George Tindall.

Frobisher pursed his lips. ‘This is a very serious matter, Mr Hardcastle. For an officer to incur debts is contrary to the Army Act. It's called conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. He could be cashiered.'

‘Really?' Hardcastle was unimpressed by this piece of military legalese. ‘In the Metropolitan Police we'd just sack the man.'

Frobisher smiled. ‘That's what the army means by cashiering an officer, Inspector. Although it might sound like it, “cashiering” doesn't mean we'd pay off his debts, either.' He drew a writing pad across his desk. ‘What was his name again?'

‘Give the colonel the details, Marriott.' Hardcastle, mildly piqued by Frobisher's gentle joshing, spoke sharply.

‘Second Lieutenant George Tindall of the Royal Field Artillery, sir,' said Marriott. ‘I don't know which battalion, but his commanding officer is Lieutenant Colonel Valentine Powell and we've been led to believe that they're somewhere near Neuve Chapelle.'

‘It's not a battalion, Sergeant Marriott. A lieutenant colonel's command in the artillery is called a brigade. However, he shouldn't be too difficult to find,' said Frobisher, scribbling down the details. ‘But how can I help you in this matter, Mr Hardcastle?'

‘It would greatly assist me if you were able to tell me whether Tindall was on leave in London over New Year's Eve, Colonel,' said Hardcastle.

‘D'you think he might've had something to do with this murder?' Frobisher appeared concerned at the prospect of an officer being suspected of murder.

‘It's a possibility I'm considering,' said Hardcastle. ‘I suppose you'd cashier him for that, too,' he added impishly.

Frobisher burst out laughing. ‘No, Inspector, I think the army would let the civil authorities deal with that. And
then
we'd cashier him. I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything. I must warn you, however, that it might take time. I'll have to find out where Powell's brigade is at the moment, and then get a signal off to him. Provided we can find the brigade in the first place. It might've moved, you see.'

Hardcastle nodded. He had become accustomed to the complaints of the military about the difficulties involved in tracking down entire units, let alone individuals. He kept to himself his opinion of what he regarded as inefficiency, but he had no idea of the difficulties faced by the British Expeditionary Force.

‘I shall need to interview Captain Villiers,' continued Frobisher. ‘As he seems to have been aware of this matter and failed to report it, then he too will be guilty of an offence. Are you able to give me his address here in England?'

‘Certainly, Colonel, but I'd be grateful if you could leave that until I'm satisfied that he had nothing to do with this here murder of mine.'

‘Of course,' said Frobisher. ‘And if the worst comes to the worst it could always be dealt with once he returns to his brigade.'

Hardcastle laughed. ‘Then you'd better not mention that he's having an affair with his colonel's wife.'

‘
What?
'

‘It's only a rumour, Colonel.' Hardcastle decided not to repeat what Haydn Villiers had told him, not knowing what penalties the military might impose for adultery. As far as he was concerned, such behaviour was commonplace, and he could not bring himself to damn an officer who was prepared to give his life for his country.

‘While we're waiting for the good colonel to find out about this here Tindall, Marriott,' said Hardcastle, once they were back at the police station, ‘I think we'll have a closer look at Reuben Gosling's background.'

‘It's possible that Tindall had nothing to do with it, sir.' Marriott was pleased that the DDI appeared to be veering back to the victim, rather than pursuing one of the tenuous theories of which he was so fond.

‘Maybe, but we'll have to wait and see. Get one of the men working at Somerset House. I want to know all there is to know about Reuben Gosling. Better put Wood on it. He's reliable.' Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood was one of those diligent officers who took a pride in his work, but who had no interest in further promotion.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And I think we'll have another word with that chap who keeps the clothing shop next door. What was his name again?'

‘Sidney Partridge, sir. Gents' outfitter.'

‘Yes, that's the fellow.'

It was two o'clock in the afternoon of the Wednesday following Reuben Gosling's murder when Hardcastle and Marriott arrived at Sidney Partridge's shop in Vauxhall Bridge Road. Partridge, clad in a waistcoat, but without a jacket, had a tape measure around his neck, and was in the act of showing a customer to the door.

‘Ah, Inspector Hardcastle. Good to see you again, sir. Come in, come in. I presume you'd like to take up my offer. I can give you a very generous twenty-five per cent discount.' Partridge revolved his hands around each other in a washing motion, and ran a discerning eye over the DDI as if estimating his size. ‘What can I show you?'

‘Nothing at the moment, Mr Partridge, but if you can spare me five minutes of your time, I'd like a word with you. If you're not too busy.'

‘Of course, of course, Inspector.' Partridge glanced at a young man. ‘Edgar, mind the shop while I speak to the inspector.'

‘Yes, Mr Partridge.' Edgar picked up a tape measure and placed it around his neck, as though it were a badge of office.

‘It might be better if you came into the back room,' said Partridge, and showed the detectives into the parlour-cum-office. ‘This is my lady wife Gladys, Inspector. This is the policeman who came to see me on New Year's Eve when poor Reuben was murdered, Glad.'

‘How d'you do, Mrs Partridge,' said Hardcastle. Partridge's wife, her grey hair woven into a neat bun, was seated at a desk poring over a large ledger. There was a pile of papers – accounts and invoices – close to her left hand.

‘You'll have to excuse me for a tick, Inspector, while I finish running up this column of figures. Then I'll have done with last year's stocktaking.'

‘Of course, Mrs Partridge,' said Hardcastle. ‘We'll try not to disturb you.'

‘Now, sir. Take a seat, take a seat.' Partridge pointed at a sofa on the far side of the room, and hovered in front of the DDI. ‘What can I do to assist?'

‘I understand from one of my officers that Reuben Gosling's wife died about ten years ago, Mr Partridge,' Hardcastle began.

‘She might be dead now, but she wasn't then.' Gladys Partridge pushed a pencil into her hair and swung round to face the detectives. ‘She ran off with a commercial traveller.'

‘I don't think the inspector wants to know about that, Glad,' said Partridge hurriedly.

‘Oh, but the inspector most definitely does,' said Hardcastle, his interest immediately aroused.

‘His name was Joseph Morgan, and he was a bit younger than Sarah, so I heard.' Gladys Partridge's keenness to relate the tale indicated to Hardcastle that she was a woman who enjoyed a bit of scandal. ‘He was a traveller in bracelets, necklaces and watches, that sort of thing. He used to visit Reuben about once a week. I don't know if he ever sold him anything, but he certainly took his wife off of him.'

‘When was this, Mrs Partridge?' asked Marriott, already scribbling notes in his pocketbook.

‘About nine years ago, I suppose. Yes, of course; it was 1907. I remember that because it was the day after William Whiteley was murdered. It was in all the papers.'

‘Twenty-fourth of January,' murmured Hardcastle. He remembered the Whiteley case well. William Whiteley was the owner of a large department store in Westbourne Grove. Horace Rayner, a man of twenty-nine, laboured under the belief that Whiteley was his father and had made demands for money. When no money was forthcoming, he walked into Whiteley's office in his emporium and shot him dead. At the time, Hardcastle had envied the detectives on the Marylebone Division, having been presented with such an open-and-shut case.

‘Have you any idea where they went?' asked Marriott.

‘No, no idea. Oh, just a minute though …' Gladys Partridge paused. ‘I seem to remember some of the neighbours mentioning Brighton, but I don't know if there was any truth in it.'

‘Were there any children of the marriage, Mrs Partridge?' asked Hardcastle.

‘I did hear that they had a son, but I don't recall him ever coming near the place. I don't think him and his dad got on too well. Reuben and Sarah certainly never mentioned him, apart from Reuben saying that the boy was always going on about the need for a Jewish homeland. Whatever that meant. But he was quite passionate about it, so Reuben said.'

‘Do you happen to know the son's name?' Marriott looked up expectantly.

‘No, I'm sorry. Sidney and I took over this business twenty years ago …' Gladys Partridge paused again. ‘It was twenty years ago, wasn't it, Sid?'

‘Yes, that's about right,' agreed her husband.

‘My, how time does fly. But I imagine their son was long gone by the time we moved in here, Mr Marriott.'

‘Thank you both for your assistance,' said Hardcastle, as he and Marriott rose from the sofa. ‘If you should think of anything else that might help me, perhaps you'd let me know, at Cannon Row police station.'

‘We're getting nowhere with this damned enquiry, Marriott.' Hardcastle reached for his pipe and began to fill it with tobacco from a worn leather pouch. He dropped the pouch on to his desk. ‘I had hoped that I might be given a new pouch for Christmas,' he complained in an aside.

‘D'you think there's anything in this business of Sarah Gosling running off with Joseph Morgan, sir?' said Marriott, not greatly interested in his chief's disappointment about a tobacco pouch.

‘Time will tell, Marriott. Time will tell.'

‘Excuse me, sir.' Detective Sergeant Herbert Wood stood in the doorway of Hardcastle's office.

‘What is it, Wood?'

‘The results of my searches at Somerset House, sir.'

‘Well, come in, man, and tell me what you've discovered,' said Hardcastle impatiently.

‘I've got dates of birth here for Reuben and Sarah Gosling née Barak, sir. They were married at the Great Synagogue in Aldgate in 1879. They have a son named Isaac who was born in Vauxhall Bridge Road, Westminster, on the sixteenth of March 1883.' Wood looked up. ‘That would be over the shop, sir.'

‘Did you find anything about the Goslings getting a divorce?'

‘No, sir. I didn't know they'd divorced. It's a different registry, you see.'

‘Yes, yes, I know that, Wood. So, have another look. And while you're about it, find out anything you can about a commercial traveller called Joseph Morgan. According to the Partridges, the Goslings' neighbours, Sarah Gosling ran away with Morgan in 1907. Morgan is said to be a year or two younger than Sarah Gosling.'

‘Very good, sir.' Wood made a note in his pocketbook.

‘Right, Wood. Give the details of what you've found so far to Sergeant Marriott, and then see if you can find out anything about Joseph Morgan. Go to Brighton if necessary, but wait until I tell you to go in case something else crops up.'

‘Is any of that likely to help, d'you think, sir?' asked Marriott, once Wood had left.

‘No idea,' said Hardcastle, ‘but I'm interested in whether Morgan making off with Reuben's wife has got any bearing on the case.'

‘I can't see any motive in that, sir, not now. There might've been an argument when it happened, but that was all nine years ago.'

‘You never can tell, Marriott,' said Hardcastle mysteriously.

‘Sir!' The door burst open and Catto stood on the threshold.

‘Is there something wrong with your right hand, Catto?' barked Hardcastle.

‘Er, no, sir.'

‘Then bloody well knock before you come barging into my office. Now, what are you in all of a lather about? And it'd better be good.'

‘I've just taken a telephone call for Sergeant Marriott, sir, from Mr Parfitt, the jeweller in Victoria Street.'

‘Well, don't keep us in suspense, Catto.'

‘A man's just gone into his shop trying to flog some of the tom that he thinks might've been nicked from Gosling's,' said Catto breathlessly.

‘Well, why the hell didn't you say so?' growled Hardcastle. ‘And is that man there now?'

‘He was when Mr Parfitt telephoned, sir.'

‘Come, Marriott.' Hardcastle leaped up from his chair and pausing only to seize his bowler hat and umbrella, made for the door.

Fortunately, a cab was turning in the forecourt of New Scotland Yard, having just set down a fare there.

‘Parfitt's the jewellers in Vic Street,' yelled Hardcastle, as he and Marriott clambered into the cab, ‘and be quick about it.'

Gilbert Parfitt was known throughout the trade, including Hatton Garden, as the owner of a high-class jewellery business, and a man who would never knowingly handle stolen property.