Hardcastle's Actress

by Graham Ison

Genres: Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

The strangled body of actress Victoria Hart is found in Windsor Great Park in the early hours of Christmas Day. Hardcastle and Marriott are sent from Scotland Yard to investigate - much to the irritation of their respective wives. The trail leads to the Beaux Belles revue at the Windsor Empire, where a scantily clad Victoria Hart persuaded young men to enlist with the promise of a kiss. It seems the alluring actress had many admirers - some not quite as gentlemanly as others - and when the recruiting sergeant is also found dead, a link to the army can no longer be ignored . . .

Release date: October 14, 2015

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

Despite her father’s warning about the fire risk, Kitty Hardcastle had lighted the candles on the Christmas tree that stood in one corner of
the parlour at 27 Kennington Road, Lambeth. Intriguing brown-paper parcels of various shapes and sizes were piled beneath it; each bore a label indicating the particular member of the family for
whom it was a gift.

Kitty and her younger sister Maud had collected sprigs of holly and spruce from the grounds of the nearby Bethlehem Royal Hospital, and arranged them tastefully around the pictures.
Painstakingly prepared garlands had been strung from the corners of the room to the recently installed electric light fitting in the centre of the ceiling. And beneath the light, the mischievous
Kitty had hung a sprig of mistletoe, but without much hope of benefiting from it. At least, not when her father was around.

This year, 1914, Christmas Day fell on a Friday and over the past twenty-one years, Ernest Hardcastle had always wound the eight-day mantel clock on a Friday, and he did so now.

In 1893, Hardcastle, then a young constable at Old Street police station, married Alice Roberts, who was nearly five years his junior. The rosewood chiming clock – a wedding present
– had cost Alice’s father, Battery Sergeant-Major Ted Roberts, twenty-nine shillings and sixpence, slightly more than a week’s pay for a warrant officer.

‘It’s one o’clock, Alice,’ said Hardcastle, taking his chromium-plated hunter from his waistcoat pocket and checking its time against that of the clock.

‘The goose should be ready in about half an hour, Ernie,’ called Alice from the kitchen. She slipped off her apron and walked through to the parlour. ‘And I hope it’s
worth it, the price I had to pay.’

‘Good.’ Hardcastle ignored his wife’s comment about rising prices, and rubbed his hands together. ‘Time for a drop of sherry, then.’ He opened a cabinet and took
out a bottle of Amontillado and five glasses. The glasses had been a wedding present too, and were only brought out on special occasions. Like Christmas.

‘Five glasses, Ernie?’ queried Alice.

‘I reckon young Wally’s old enough for a sherry, seeing as it’s Christmas.’ In view of what Alice had said about the cost of the goose, Hardcastle thought he had better
not mention that the sherry had set him back four shillings.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Alice doubtfully. ‘He’s only fourteen.’ Even though she recognized that young Walter was growing up fast, she was not sure that he
was yet ready for sherry.

‘Won’t do the lad any harm to learn how to drink properly,’ muttered Hardcastle. But knowing that young Walter had been employed as a telegram boy since leaving school almost a
year ago, his father was fairly certain that it would not be the lad’s first taste of alcohol. ‘Anyway, he’ll be fifteen next month.’

Once the whole family had assembled, Hardcastle proposed a toast. ‘A merry Christmas, and here’s health and happiness to us all,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘And may
this terrible war be over before next Christmas.’ It proved to be unfulfilled optimism; the Great War, as it became known, was to last nearly another four years, and be responsible
for the death and maiming of millions. And a change in the social order of the country that could not possibly have been visualized when it started.

But the Hardcastles’ hopeful celebrations were interrupted by a knock at the door.

‘Oh, no, I don’t believe it,’ said Alice. ‘Not on Christmas Day.’ Regrettably, she was all too accustomed to her husband being sent for to deal with some serious
crime.

‘Don’t fuss yourself, Alice,’ said Hardcastle. ‘It’ll most likely be one of the neighbours dropping in to wish us the compliments of the season.’ He placed
his glass carefully on the mantelpiece beside the clock and made for the front door.

The young policeman saluted. ‘Mr Hardcastle, sir?’

‘What is it, lad?’

‘There’s a message for you, sir. You’re wanted at Scotland Yard.’ The PC pulled a flimsy message from his pocket and handed it to Hardcastle. ‘Urgent it says,
sir.’

Hardcastle quickly scanned the form. ‘Oh bugger it!’ he exclaimed loudly.

‘Ernest!’ cautioned Alice from the sitting room.

Hardcastle recognized his wife’s use of his full name as a reproof for having sworn, but chose to ignore it.

‘Come in, lad, and have a glass of sherry to warm yourself.’

‘Thank you very much, sir.’ The young policeman did not recall ever having been offered a drink by so senior an officer. Removing his helmet, he followed Hardcastle through to the
sitting room.

Taking the sixth remaining glass from the cabinet, Hardcastle filled it. It was an unusual act of generosity on his part, but Christmas was different.

‘A merry Christmas, sir,’ said the PC, ‘and you too, ma’am,’ he added, glancing at Alice Hardcastle.

‘I doubt it will be,’ grumbled Hardcastle. As the divisional detective inspector in charge of the Criminal Investigation Department for the A or Whitehall Division of the
Metropolitan Police, he was accustomed to being called out by a service that habitually set its corporate face against acknowledging the existence of high days and holidays.

‘I’m afraid I’ve got to go out, Alice,’ said Hardcastle. He glanced at the message form again and turned to the PC. ‘Did they say what it was about, lad?’

‘No, sir,’ said the young policeman. ‘All I know is what’s on the message,’ he added, and chanced a smile towards Kitty, the Hardcastles’ eldest daughter.

Kitty, a winsome eighteen-year-old who rarely failed to attract the attention of young men, smiled in return and lowered her eyes in what she believed to be a fetching way.

‘Oh, it’s too much,’ complained Alice. ‘What about Christmas dinner?’

‘You go ahead and enjoy it,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But keep a few slices of cold goose for me. There’s no telling when I’ll be back. I don’t even know what
it’s about. All it says here – ’ he tapped the message form – ‘is that I’ve to see Mr Ward immediately.’

New Scotland Yard was a grim, grey fortress of a building that overlooked the River Thames and the half-built County Hall on the opposite bank. The Yard, like
Hardcastle’s own police station facing it, had been built from granite that, fittingly, had been hewn by Dartmoor convicts.

Being Christmas Day, the main entrance to the building was closed and Hardcastle was obliged to enter by what was known as Back Hall, the black door to which was in the corner of the
courtyard.

Nodding in response to the duty constable’s salute, Hardcastle mounted the stairs to the tiled corridor where were to be found the offices of the Yard’s most senior officers.

Detective Chief Inspector Alfred Ward, the officer in charge of the Central Office of the CID at Scotland Yard, had only recently returned from another bout of the persistent illness that was to
bring about his death two years later. But Ward was a dedicated policeman and thought nothing of interrupting his Yuletide break when there was a duty to be undertaken.

‘I’m sorry to have spoiled your Christmas Day, Mr Hardcastle,’ Ward began, ‘and I would have found another officer if I could have done so. Unfortunately all the Central
Office detectives are otherwise engaged on duties of a various kind.’

‘I see, sir.’ Hardcastle was not convinced of that. The detectives of the Murder Squad at Scotland Yard regarded themselves as an elite, and tended to look down on divisional
detectives. There was no point in arguing, but Hardcastle would have been prepared to bet that they were all at home enjoying Christmas dinner with their families.

‘Windsor,’ said Ward with his customary brevity.

‘Windsor, sir?’ echoed Hardcastle.

‘Seems there’s been a murder, Mr Hardcastle. The body of a young woman was found in Windsor Great Park at four o’clock this morning. The Chief Constable of Windsor thinks that
his detectives are not up to investigating a murder, and he’s asked for assistance from the Yard. The Commissioner has acceded to the request and, as you are an officer skilled in the
investigation of murder, I’ve picked you for the job.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Hardcastle was, however, unimpressed by Ward’s blandishments; he realized that his selection was an expedient rather than recognition of his ability.

‘So get yourself down there as soon as you can, and let me know how you get on. I presume you’ll take one of your own sergeants.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Hardcastle immediately decided that he would take Detective Sergeant Charles Marriott with him. Although he was loath to ruin Marriott’s Christmas Day in the way
his own had been marred, he did not intend to take an assistant unfamiliar with his ways. And Marriott knew his DDI’s methods better than anyone else.

‘Get on with it, then,’ said Ward, and waved a hand of dismissal. He dipped his pen in the inkwell and began writing a minute in the file that lay open on his desk.

To put it mildly, Lorna Marriott had not been pleased when Hardcastle arrived at the Marriotts’ Regency Street quarters to summon her husband for detached duty. Despite
Marriott’s attempts to quieten her, she had told the DDI, in no uncertain terms, what she thought about a police force that took their children’s father away from his family on
Christmas Day.

Hardcastle confined himself to commenting that it would be even worse when Marriott was a divisional detective inspector. Although it was meant to imply that Marriott would eventually reach that
exalted rank, Lorna did not see it that way, and it did little to improve her mood. If anything, it worsened it.

As it was Christmas, the train service from Waterloo to Windsor was infrequent. Consequently, it was gone five o’clock by the time the two Metropolitan officers arrived
at the police headquarters adjoining the police station in St Leonard’s Road.

‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Metropolitan Police, and this here’s Detective Sergeant Marriott,’ said Hardcastle to the sergeant manning the front
office desk. ‘I’m here to see the chief constable.’

The elderly sergeant pulled thoughtfully at his beard, apart from which he made no move to do Hardcastle’s bidding. ‘Bless you, sir,’ he said, ‘the chief
constable’s at home with his family, it being Christmas Day like.’

‘I’m well aware what day it is, Sergeant,’ snapped Hardcastle. ‘However, your chief constable sent for me urgently, so you’d better tell me where I can find him.
And a bit quick an’ all.’ He was in no mood to be thwarted by an individual whose attitude suggested that he was unlikely to do anything in a hurry.

‘Perhaps I’d better get the inspector, sir.’ This sort of dilemma was not one with which the sergeant was prepared to deal on Christmas Day. Or, for that matter, on any other
day.

‘Yes, perhaps you had,’ said Hardcastle, and turned to his own sergeant. ‘If it’s like this when they’ve got a murder on their hands, Marriott, God alone knows what
it’s like when they haven’t. It’s no wonder the King insists on the Metropolitan Police guarding Windsor Castle.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott had long ago learned that monosyllabic answers were the safest response to Hardcastle’s tirades about the inefficiency of others. Apart from which he was
fairly certain that the King neither knew nor cared which police force guarded his Berkshire residence.

A minute or two later, a uniformed inspector emerged from an office at the rear of the police station. Flicking the last of some crumbs from the front of his tunic, he stared at Hardcastle.
‘My sergeant tells me you want to see the chief constable, sir,’ he said in tones that implied Hardcastle had made a fatuous request.

‘No,’ said Hardcastle flatly. ‘Your chief constable wants to see me.’

‘Might I ask what it’s about, sir?’

‘God Almighty,’ thundered Hardcastle. ‘It’s about a murder. I’ve been sent down here to deal with the death of some young woman who was found in Windsor Great Park
at four o’clock this morning. And apparently you haven’t got any detectives who are up to finding out who topped her. There, Inspector, now you know what it’s all
about.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said the Windsor inspector, ‘I thought that’s what it’d be, sir. In that case you’ll need to see our detective inspector. He’s in charge of
our CID and is dealing with the matter. He’s upstairs at the moment.’

Hardcastle glared at the uniformed sergeant, now sheltering behind his inspector. ‘You could have said that to start with, Sergeant,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t have time to
waste, you know.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t know that’s what you’d come about,’ said the sergeant.

‘Well, I haven’t come down here to clear up a case of sheep-stealing, that’s for sure,’ said Hardcastle tersely. And with that he followed the local inspector up a flight
of stairs at the rear of the building.

The man who greeted Hardcastle and Marriott was a tall, grey-haired man of about fifty years of age. His opening statement completely disarmed the London DDI, and did much to defuse the foul
temper that had been building ever since the Kennington PC had knocked at Hardcastle’s door earlier that day.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Angus Struthers, Mr Hardcastle.’ The Windsor DI spoke with a marked Aberdonian accent, and crossed his office with his hand outstretched. ‘I
can’t tell you how sorry I am to have been instrumental in getting you sent down here on Christmas Day of all days. Do take a seat, and you too, er . . . ?’

‘Detective Sergeant Marriott, sir.’

‘Good. Well, I’m pleased to meet you both, and I’m sure I can persuade you gentlemen to take a dram while I tell you what we know.’ Struthers opened a filing cabinet and
took out a bottle of Scotch whisky and three tumblers. But then he turned. ‘Which is not very much, I’m afraid. Apart from the young woman’s identity, that is.’ He finished
pouring the whisky and handed the glasses to the London detectives. ‘You’ll not be wanting water, I take it, Mr Hardcastle?’ To a Scotsman such dilution would have been tantamount
to sacrilege.

‘Indeed not.’ Hardcastle took a swig of his whisky, noting at the same time that the Windsor DI’s speech was a little slurred. But then it was Christmas. ‘And who is the
murder victim, Mr Struthers?’

‘Her name’s Victoria Hart.’

‘How did you manage to identify her so quickly?’

‘She’s an actress of sorts who’d been appearing in a revue at the Windsor Empire,’ said Struthers. ‘Well, more of a song-and-dance artiste, I suppose you’d
call her. Apparently, she’s been likened to a younger version of Marie Lloyd, but a bit more risqué. Her body was found by a park ranger, name of Jenkins – Harry Jenkins –
and he’d seen the show recently and recognized her.’

‘Cause of death?’ queried Hardcastle.

‘Manual strangulation.’

‘Are you certain of that, Mr Struthers?’ Hardcastle was surprised that a post-mortem examination had been conducted so quickly. If it had.

The Windsor detective smiled. ‘Aye, we managed to get a pathologist to do the PM this morning.’

‘Must have cost a pretty penny, getting him out of bed on Christmas Day,’ grunted Hardcastle, aware of the fees charged by London pathologists.

Struthers laughed. ‘I reckon the rich burgesses of the Royal Borough can afford it,’ he said, leaning across to top up Hardcastle’s glass. ‘It seems that the woman had
been dead for some time before she was found. The pathologist estimates that she was probably killed at around seven o’clock on Christmas Eve.’

‘So, what do you know about this woman?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘Not a great deal as yet,’ said Struthers. ‘But we did follow up on what the park ranger—’

‘Is there a resident caretaker at this Windsor Empire?’ asked Hardcastle, cutting across what Struthers was saying.

‘Yes. I was about to mention him. Joseph Sharpies is his name, and he also acts as stage-door keeper.’

‘Well, in that case,’ said Hardcastle, ‘we’d better pay him a visit and see what we can find out.’ He intended to waste no more time in Windsor than was
necessary.

‘Been done already, Mr Hardcastle.’ Struthers reached across his desk and picked up several sheets of paper. ‘I’ve got his statement here, but to save you reading it
straight away I’ll summarize what he had to say.’ He put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘Victoria Hart’s been appearing in a revue at the Windsor Empire for the past
two weeks.’ He looked up. ‘It was called Beaux Belles. Daft sort of title, if you ask me. However, it closed yesterday, Christmas Eve. They’ve a pantomime starting there
tomorrow, apparently. The only interesting thing to come out of that – ’ he put down the statement and pushed it to one side – ‘is that she had several admirers.’

‘Did she take up with any of these admirers, do we know?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘That I don’t know, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to track them down. According to Sharples there were one or two army officers who took an interest in her –
Household Cavalry swells by all accounts – from up the road at Combermere Barracks.’

‘Anything else?’

‘It seems that her performance was a bit, well, daring, I suppose you’d call it. We took a statement from the park ranger who found her. As I said, he’d seen the show, and he
told me that she appeared in top hat, a basque – that’s a corset-like affair, apparently – black silk tights and shoes with high heels.’ He laughed. ‘And nothing else
but a silver-topped cane. Did a bit of an exotic dance, by all accounts. Didn’t go down too well with the matriarchs of Windsor, I can tell you, but it was very popular with the male members
of the audience. Particularly when she belted out her final song: “We don’t want to lose you, but we think you ought to go”. Real patriotic stuff that brought the house
down, and I’m told she succeeded in persuading quite a few to join up.’

‘Not surprising,’ commented Hardcastle. ‘Was she helping with recruiting, then?’

‘She certainly was, and there was a recruiting sergeant waiting in the wings,’ Struthers continued. ‘He’d appear on stage with her at the end of the show and wait for
these youngsters to rush up and take the King’s shilling. Probably because they got a kiss from Miss Hart when they signed on,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘But they’ll likely
live to regret it once they get to Aldershot.’

‘Or die regretting it when they get to France,’ said Hardcastle cynically. He was all too aware of the rout suffered by the British Army at Mons the previous August. ‘Apart
from these army officers, was there anyone else who called regularly at the stage door?’

‘Quite a few, it seems.’ Struthers paused as though unwilling to express an opinion. ‘I suppose that because of the revealing costume she was dressed in on stage there were one
or two young bloods who fancied their chances with her. Thought she was easy game, maybe. I have to say that a lot of actresses are.’

‘And do you think she was, sir?’ asked Marriott, looking up from the notes he had been making.

‘I don’t really know, Sergeant,’ said Struthers. ‘But an actress who appears half naked gets that sort of reputation, I suppose. Whether it’s justified or
not.’ He paused, and chuckled. ‘I doubt she’d ever appeared north of the border. The elders of the Kirk of Scotland would have had a few choice words to say about that, I can tell
you.’

‘You referred to her just now as Miss Hart, Mr Struthers,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Does that mean she’s unmarried?’

‘We’ve not discovered that yet. But I do have the address of the actor-manager who put the show together. His name’s Percy Savage. I’m hoping he can tell us more, but he
may not know much about the girl’s private life.’

This sort of lackadaisical approach to a murder investigation did not suit Hardcas. . .