Constable Guard Thyself

by Henry Wade

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Two threats from a newly released convict - a poacher framed on a murder charge - put Captain Scole, Chief Constable of Brodshire, on his guard. Special men are assigned to protect him. But four days later, Captain Scole is found shot through the head at his desk in Police Headquarters. A full week later, young Inspector Poole of Scotland Yard is called in to follow a cold trail in the face of open hostility from the local police. And the further he explores the murder, the more baffling it becomes. Could Scole's First World War past be catching up with him - or something much closer to home?

Release date: June 14, 2016

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 314

Sample

“THIS is my Chief Clerk’s office, General.”

Captain Scole, Chief Constable of Brodshire, threw open the door of a small ill-lit room, lined with shelves and filing cabinets. A uniformed police-officer, who was sitting at the big roll-top
desk, rose quickly to his feet and stood to attention.

“Ah, it’s you, Inspector; I’d forgotten Mr. Jason was going off this afternoon.”

Captain Scole turned to his companion, a rather short, military-looking man with brushed-up moustache too large for his body, and bright blue eyes.

“This is Inspector Tallard, who acts as deputy to the Chief Clerk. Superintendent Jason is away for two or three days for his sister’s wedding. I’ll introduce him to you some
other time. Wretched room this; I’m hoping to persuade your Committee to build us some new headquarters when things get better.”

The General, however, was taking less interest in the room than in its occupant.

“Have we met before, Inspector?” he asked. “Were you in the Brodshires? I’m General Cawdon; I commanded the 7th Battalion in ’18.”

As General Cawdon spoke, a quick flash of recognition had passed over the Inspector’s face. He was a well-built man of medium height, with a firm mouth and close-clipped moustache. After
that one flash his face settled again into the rather wooden expression that was evidently habitual to it.

“Not in the Brodshires, sir,” he replied, “but I did serve under you for a few days in ’18—on the Somme.”

Captain Scole pricked up his ears.

“That’s interesting,” he said. “You never told me that, Tallard. I was in the County Regiment myself, before I became a policeman, as I expect you know. General Cawdon
and I were in the same battalion in . . . what was it, General . . . ’05, ’06?”

“1906; I joined you in India, you remember, from the 1st Battalion. That was just after poor Jack Smiley and little Patterson were killed on the frontier.”

“That’s right, of course; I remember. General Cawdon has just joined the Standing Joint Committee, Inspector, so we must pull ourselves together or we’ll be in the
book.”

General Cawdon gave a short, hearty laugh.

“It would be a change for me, Scole,” he said. “I was your junior by four or five years. But look here, Inspector, I want to hear more about this. How did you come to serve
under me if you weren’t in the Regiment?”

“It was after the German offensive had started, sir—the March show. I’d joined the London Fusiliers at the end of ’17 and I was sent out with a big draft the moment it
began. The base camp was packed with reinforcements, all in an awful muddle, and we were pushed off anywhere we were wanted, regardless of regiment—at least, that’s what it looked like
to us. Anyway, I and about a dozen other Fusiliers found ourselves with a draft going up to the 7th Brodshires, and we landed in the middle of it and nearly all got scuppered before we were
straightened out.”

General Cawdon’s face had for the moment lost some of its bird-like exuberance.

“Yes, yes, I remember now,” he muttered. “Poor devils, we hardly got their names on the books. Where was it? Beauchamps?”

“That’s right, sir. Beauchamps-sur-Somme.”

“My God, Scole; it was an awful time, that,” said the General. “We’d been cut to pieces behind St. Quentin and were pushed back—what was left of us—day after
day for what seemed like weeks. They sent us up a big draft that joined us on the Somme, a bit east of Villers-Bretonneux—men from several different units as well as
Brodshires—I’d forgotten for the moment. We had no time even to sort them out into companies; the Huns attacked us again that very night and we had to put them straight in. These
fellows fought like veterans for three days and then the line broke on our left and the Germans got behind us. Damned few of us got back. You, I take it, were one, Tallard?”

Inspector Tallard shook his head.

“No, sir; I was taken prisoner.”

“You were? Then how the devil do I remember your face, if you were only with me those two or three days?”

Again Tallard shook his head.

“Don’t see how you could, sir; not possibly.”

“Extraordinary . . . must have . . . by Jove, I remember. I put you in for an M.M.! I remember you well now. You’re the fellow that bombed a German machine gun that had got behind us
. . . knocked ’em out. I put you in . . . Good God, did I? . . . or did I only mean to? I remember meaning to, but we were so much disorganized . . . I got a bit knocked out myself . . . that
I can’t remember whether it ever went through.”

Inspector Tallard had stiffened.

“No, sir; you’re mistaken. I never bombed any German machine gun. I fired a good many rounds at a lot of them, like we all did. Then when they got behind us nearly all our platoon
were killed and I was taken prisoner.”

General Cawdon shook his head.

“Well, you ought to know”, he said. “I seem to remember. May have been some other fellow. Anyway, I’m glad to have met you. You must tell me all about yourself another
time. I must be getting back, Scole. Very good of you to have shown me round.”

He turned on his heel and walked out of the room. Captain Scole saw that his face was rather grey, his carriage less erect, as if the memory of that nightmare on the Somme had sapped his
vitality. The Chief Constable followed him out.

“Very good of you to come, General. You’ll be a great help. . . .”

His voice died away down the stairs. Inspector Tallard stood for a time staring at the closed door. Even his expressionless face seemed to reflect some memory of the hideous past. With a
stiffening of the shoulders he sat down and pressed a bell. A young constable appeared.

“Take these notes about Albert Hinde. Got your book?”

“Yes, sir.”

The constable pulled forward a chair and sat down, an open note-book on his knee.

“Released from Fieldhurst 14th October ’33 on expiration of sentence, three months remission only. Gave his address as 13 Park Road, Woolham, Chassex. Chassex Police report he
arrived there on 15th but left again on 5th inst, reporting no change of address. As he was convicted in Brodshire it is thought . . .”

The young constable looked up.

“Hinde? Isn’t that the chap that killed a keeper, sir?”

“You attend to your shorthand, young fellow, and leave me to do the talking”, said the Inspector, shortly. “It is thought that he may . . .”

A bell buzzed gently.

“That’s the Chief. Hold on”, said Inspector Tallard, rising to his feet. “No, you better get down; I may be some time.”

He collected some papers and crossed the passage to the Chief Constable’s room. Captain Scole was standing with his back to the fire-place, looking at a telegram he held in his hand. He
was a big man with crisp, grizzled hair and a stubble moustache. His jaw was square and his tight-shut mouth gave an impression of stubborn determination which was in no way lessened by cold, very
light grey eyes. He was fifty-nine years old but showed no signs of losing grip.

“There’s a telegram from Mr. Jason. His sister’s ill and the wedding postponed. I’ve wired him to stay till Sunday night in any case; glad to be with her, I
expect.”

“Yes, sir. Will you sign now, sir?”

Captain Scole moved to his desk.

“Interesting your having been attached to the Regiment. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did, sir, when I joined the Force. This is the car mileage return; South Eastern Division are up a good bit this month, but they’ve had all that Foot and Mouth.”

Inspector Tallard’s voice maintained an expressionless level, whether he was talking about himself, or a murder, or a clothing indent. The Chief Constable thought him a dull fellow, though
quietly efficient.

“Your father was a Brodshire man. Why didn’t you join his regiment?”

“I was working in London as a lad, sir, and had been at school there. Everyone was joining The Londons; it seemed the natural thing to do.”

The Chief Constable grunted but made no comment. There were a good many papers to be signed and for ten minutes he was busy. But the subject seemed to be rankling, because presently he put down
his pen and, leaning back in his chair, looked at his subordinate.

“Your father was the smartest Company-Sergeant-Major in the battalion; he taught me most of what I knew. That was why I was glad to take you on in the Constabulary. You never thought of
following in his footsteps?—long service, I mean, and promotion?”

“I always wanted to be a policeman, sir. Seemed to me more useful than soldiering—peace-time soldiering. I’m grateful to you for taking me on, sir. I know there can’t
have been many vacancies then, with your own men coming back from the war.”

“There weren’t. I don’t think we took anyone else—no recruits, I mean—till well on in ’20.”

“I was lucky, sir. There’s that question of young Wastable . . . cattle-maiming, you remember, sir. He was up before the Looseley Bench this morning. They wanted to send him to a
reformatory, but under the new Children and Young Persons Act they can only send him to an approved school. They want to know if we can tell them of one that’ll do him good.”

The Chief Constable grunted.

“Not our job; the Magistrate’s Clerk must see about that. Perfect nonsense, of course, about the police keeping out of it; we’re the only people these young scoundrels are
afraid of. The cat’s what they want.”

“Yes, sir. That’s all to-night, sir.”

Inspector Tallard gathered up his papers and made for the door. The Chief Constable fidgeted with his pen, then looked up quickly, as if he had come to a decision.

“Half a minute, Tallard”, he said. “Mr. Jason was saying something to me this morning about a man called Hinde who’s just been released from Fieldhurst. There was some
question of the Chassex police having lost touch with him. I take it he’s on licence. Do you know anything about it?”

“Only what we got from the Chassex police, sir. The man reported to them on release and said he was going to stay in Woolham for a bit. Now they say he’s left home without notifying
his change of address in accordance with regulations. They think that as he was convicted here he may have come this way. I understand he had a bad record at Fieldhurst, sir, and only earned three
months’ remission. Violent, I believe he was.”

The Chief Constable frowned.

“Yes, a dangerous fellow, I should think. Can’t think why the Home Secretary wanted to interfere with the sentence. The Governor told me some time ago that he seemed to be
deliberately making trouble so as not to get remission. Didn’t want to have to report, I suppose. No doubt that was why they did give him the three months, in spite of his
behaviour.”

“Looks like it, sir”, said Inspector Tallard, his hand on the door.

But Captain Scole appeared disinclined to let him go.

“Case was before your time, of course,” he said, leaning back and filling a pipe. “Murdered a keeper and was sentenced to death, but the Home Secretary advised His Majesty to
commute—God knows why—something about possible grounds for doubting premeditation. Hinde’s brother, a youngster, and another man got five years as accessories. They were both
killed in the war, I believe. Funny sort of justice that this fellow, the real murderer, should be the one to survive and now be able to go about making more trouble.”

“I expect he’s had his lesson, sir”, said the Inspector, patiently. He had more work to do before he could get off duty.

“I doubt it, but we’ll hope so. You’re sending out an information? Better keep tabs on him if he comes this way. Well, I’ll be off now. I shall be going straight home in
case you want me again. Good-night.”

“Good-night, sir.”

After the door had closed, Captain Scole sat for some time, staring at the blotting paper in front of him. Presently he pulled open the drawer on the right of his desk and took out an automatic
pistol. After examining the charger he half slipped the weapon into his pocket, hesitated, pulled it out again and, with a muttered ‘Pah!’, threw it back into the drawer, which he shut.
Probably he felt the half-shamefaced dislike of the melodramatic which is common to the normal Englishman, but he was conscious of doubting his own wisdom as he walked downstairs and out into the
November night.

There are still left in England some men and women who prefer driving a horse to a motor-car. Captain Anthony Scole was one of these. For duty, of course—for the huge mileage that he had
to cover in the course of his work—a car was essential, but for pleasure—and in this he included the five miles to and from office and home, and for which he charged the County
nothing—he kept a smart bay mare and a low rubber-tyred dog-cart, which for years had been a well-known feature of the Brodbury neighbourhood. The mare, of course, changed from time to time,
but her name remained; the present occupant of the shafts was Bessie III, as like as a pin to the two Bessies that had in the past twenty years preceded her, so that many people believed that the
Chief Constable’s stables possessed the secret of perpetual youth.

It did not take George, the ostler at the ‘Bampton Arms’, many minutes to ‘put in’, and while he bustled about he talked and ‘the Captain’ listened. Ostlers
are still a feature of the bigger inns in market towns and the Chief Constable was not above picking up stray bits of gossip that always found their way into the stable yard; more than one useful
hint had filtered through to Police Headquarters by this channel.

With a cheery good-night to George and a ‘Come up, lass’ to Bessie, Captain Scole turned out into the square and, answering the salute of the constable on traffic control duty, drove
quietly through the crowded streets till he was clear of the town. Out in the open country only a touch of whip on shoulder was needed to put the mare into her top speed and the hedges soon began
to fly past in the deepening twilight. Soon there appeared ahead the dark masses of the Brodley Woods, and the sight of them brought back to Captain Scole the details of the twenty-year-old story
he had just been discussing with Inspector Tallard.

When he was appointed in 1912 Brodshire was suffering from a severe epidemic of poaching. Gangs of men from the big neighbouring port of Greymouth were in the habit of ‘working’ the
well-stocked coverts for which Brodshire was famous, becoming each season more daring and even violent. It was largely to fight this growing menace that the Standing Joint Committee of
Brodshire—landowners almost to a man—had decided that the time had come to appoint a younger and more vigorous man to the Chief Constableship, in place of dear old Colonel Breddington,
who had served the County so well and so tactfully in the more tranquil days of Victoria and Edward.

Captain Anthony Scole had owed his selection in no small degree to the reputation for fearlessness and determination which he had built up for himself during his five years’ police service
in a by no means tranquil corner of India. His stubborn jaw and hard mouth were in themselves guarantee that he would deal faithfully with disturbers of the peace of Brodshire. On taking up his
duties he had soon realised that the poaching problem needed not only firmer handling but better organisation. It did not take him long to get to know the various keepers who were suffering from
overwhelming odds and inadequate support; these gallant men quickly responded to encouragement and were only too willing to co-operate with the police in an organised campaign, and before long this
was working smoothly and poaching became a much less easy and profitable business. But it did not stop, and Scole soon realised that a fine or a few days’ or weeks’ imprisonment was not
enough to deter men from a pursuit that combined profit, sport, and the exhilaration of risk. What was needed was an example, and the Chief Constable was determined to get it.

Twenty years later, with years of experience and mellowing age behind him, Anthony Scole did not feel quite so happy as he had at the time about the circumstances which led up to the death of
Keeper Love and the passing of a death sentence upon his slayer. Then he had been overwhelmed with delight at his own cleverness and at the luck which made such a sentence possible. Love had been a
pawn in the game; his death meant little to a man like Scole. The death—the execution—of the poacher Hinde would have meant much; even the life-long imprisonment to which the sentence
had been commuted was enough to bring the poaching epidemic to an abrupt end, though Scole, for reasons of his own, would have preferred the man out of his way altogether.

Now the whole thing, so long almost forgotten, had been brought back to the forefront of his mind by the release, after nearly twenty years, of Albert Hinde, and the suggestion that he might be
making his way back to the neighbourhood in which his tragedy had happened. Here, in these very woods whose trees now formed a tunnel over his head, Hinde’s gun had blown Keeper Love’s
head into a bloody pulp and the Brodshire police, rushing out from their ambush, had had easy work in overpowering the three horrified and bewildered men who stood looking down upon the still
quivering body. Luck for the police that had been, luck that he himself had been present and able to give the damning evidence that had defeated the attempt of the defence to whittle murder down to
manslaughter. That evidence. It had needed courage—moral courage. He was risking his whole career . . .

With a sudden swerve, Bessie flung herself to one side of the road as a figure jumped out from the other with uplifted arms. Instinctively Scole reined back, pulling the mare almost on to her
haunches. As he did so, the man in the road seized the bridle.

“Let go that rein!” exclaimed Scole sharply.

The man peered up at him, shading his eyes with his free hand against the glare of the candle-lamps, bright in the deep blackness of the woods.

“Just a minute, Captain. I see it’s you all right.”

“Who are you? What the devil d’you want?”

The man removed his hand from his eyes.

“Have a look at me, Captain. P’raps you’ll know me again.”

The lamplight fell upon a coarse, brutal face, with thickened nose and broken teeth. A week-old stubble on cheeks and jaw blurred the outline, but Scole realised that this must be the man of
whom he had just been thinking. With a beating heart, he cursed his folly in not bringing his pistol.

“I’ve no idea who you are. Let go of that rein at once.”

“Twenty years inside may have spoilt my beauty a bit, but I reckon you know me, Captain. I’ve not forgotten you, anyway; you can bet your life on that . . . if you think it’s
worth a bet!”

The man’s tone left no doubt as to the meaning of the last words. Captain Scole felt the tightening at the throat which had always come to him before when he was in an awkward corner. This
might be just talk, but it might well be more—and he was defenceless. With a quick movement he transferred his whip to his left hand and thrust the right into the pocket of his driving
coat.

“Put your hands up!” he snapped, tugging at an imaginary weapon in his pocket.

For a second the man hesitated, then jumped back off the road and disappeared into the gloom of the wood.

Captain Scole gave a short laugh.

“Damn’ funk”, he exclaimed aloud, then whipped up Bessie and drove on without a glance behind him.

A LITTLE before nine on the following morning,1 a boy wearing the red and yellow cap of Brodbury Grammar
School, leant his bicycle against the outer wall of Police Headquarters and looked doubtfully at the closed door. His heart was beating a shade faster than usual, but he concealed his nervousness
even from himself and, seeing no bell, turned the handle and walked in. The waiting-room in which he found himself was empty, but there was a small window marked ‘Enquiries’, and on
this he tapped. Through the glass he saw a constable rise from his desk, approach the window, and throw it open.

“What is your trouble, my lad?”

“No trouble. A man gave me this note to give to the Chief Constable.”

The constable took the rather grubby envelope and turned it over with faint signs of disgust.

“What sort of a man? Does it want an answer?”

“I don’t know. He just stopped me and asked if I was going into Brodbury. I come from Petsham. I’m going to the Grammar School. I ought to go on, please; it’s nearly
nine.”

“Half a mo. You don’t know who this chap was?”

“No.”

“All right. You’ll have to wait while I give it to the Inspector.”

The boy began to look anxious.

“But I shall get into trouble if I’m late.”

“I shan’t be a minute. Sit down in there.”

The constable shut the window and presently re-appeared in the waiting-room on his way upstairs. In a minute he was back.

“Inspector says you can go if you leave your name and address.”

The boy sprang to his feet.

“Jack Wissel, Grammar School, and Ivy Cottage, Petsham.”

“Right; hop it.”

The red and yellow cap whisked out of the door and was presently flying through the streets at a pace worthy of a police tender in pursuit.

Upstairs in the Chief Clerk’s office, Inspector Tallard was inspecting the grubby note. It was the duty of the Chief Clerk to open all letters addressed to the Chief Constable, unless they
were marked ‘Confidential’ or addressed to him personally. This note showed no outward sign of being either confidential or personal, but the first glance at its contents caused
Inspector Tallard to press his thumb firmly on the electric bell.

“Where’s the boy who brought this?” he asked sharply when P.C. Leith re-appeared.

“Gone, sir.”

“Fetch him back, sharp. Wait a minute, I’ll telephone.”

He picked up the receiver and put a call through to the Grammar School. In a minute he was speaking to the head-master.

“You’ve got a boy called Wissel, haven’t you, Mr. Boulding? Yes, that’s the lad; Jack Wissel. He brought a note in here just now and the Chief Constable will want to see
him about it. He’ll be in any time now; could the boy come back and report? We shan’t keep him long, I don’t suppose. Thank you, Mr. Boulding.”

Replacing the receiver, Inspector Tallard picked up the note and read it through again. Then he remembered that Leith was waiting.

“You said the boy came from Petsham, didn’t you? Go down to Superintendent Venning and ask him if he can send his patrol car up the Petsham road to try and pick up that man Hinde we
had an information about last night. He’s got the description. Look sharp, and send Sergeant Pitt up to me.”

A few seconds later the sergeant in charge of the general office appeared.

“Pitt, that fellow Hinde has sent a threatening letter to the Chief. Gave it to a boy on a bicycle somewhere this side of Petsham. Get on to all stations and let them know the man’s
about. Get . . . no, I’d better do him. Look sharp with it.”

While Sergeant Pitt cl. . .