Hardcastle's Airmen

by Graham Ison

Genres: Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

In February 1915 the Great War is still raging on the Western Front but back in Westminster a policeman is shot dead. At first, Hardcastle believes the murderer to have been a disturbed burglar. But then, there is another killing - the beautiful wife of a Royal Flying Corps Officer - on whose doorstep the first victim was killed. As enquiries continue, attention focuses on an antiquarian bookseller, a struggling artist, a reporter and even officers of the Royal Flying Corps. Hardcastle must uncover a tangle of lies, emotions and betrayals before he can get to the truth.

Release date: October 14, 2015

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 229

Sample

The snow had been falling for more than an hour, and even the chill wind sweeping the length of Kennington Road in Lambeth had failed to deter it
from settling. Now some two inches deep, the white blanket deadened all sound save that of the popping gas lamps and the occasional passing tram, its dim yellow lights and mournful bell marking its
ghostly journey. It was nearing seven o’clock on the evening of Thursday the eleventh of February 1915. It would be another two months before London suffered its first air raid, and lighting
restrictions had yet to be imposed.

A constable from the local police station hammered loudly on the door of number 27. But it was some time before the door was opened.

Divisional Detective Inspector Ernest Hardcastle, head of the CID for the A or Whitehall Division of the Metropolitan Police, appeared in his shirtsleeves and an unbuttoned waistcoat.

‘Bloody hell, boy, I’m in the middle of my supper. It’d better be important.’

‘It is, sir,’ said the PC. ‘A copper’s been shot on Rochester Row’s ground.’

‘Is he badly injured?’

‘He’s dead, sir,’ said the PC.

‘Whereabouts on Rochester Row’s ground?’ asked Hardcastle as he turned from the door. ‘You’d best come in, lad, while I get my coat. And wipe your feet or
you’ll have Mrs Hardcastle after you.’

The PC glanced at the sodden message form in his hand. ‘Cowley Street, sir.’ Taking off his cape and shaking the snow from it before entering, he followed Hardcastle into the tiny
hall.

‘Best get me a cab, then.’ Hardcastle donned his jacket, and took his chesterfield overcoat, bowler hat and umbrella from the hooks that hung next to a mirror.

‘Outside, sir, ready and waiting. I was lucky to find one. There’s not many about in this weather.’

‘I’ve got to go out, Alice,’ called Hardcastle to his wife, who was in the kitchen.

‘Shall I put your supper in the oven then, Ernie?’ But even as she said it, Alice Hardcastle knew that it was a futile question; she had been married to a policeman long enough to
know that when so high-ranking an officer as her husband was called out, it was unlikely that he would be home before breakfast, if then.

‘No, don’t bother, love,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I could be some time.’ The DDI was not a man given to exaggeration, and he knew that the murder of a police officer
would be a time-consuming enquiry. But even he did not realize how extended this particular investigation would become.

Charles Marriott, the first-class detective sergeant from Cannon Row police station, had been called out too, and was already in Cowley Street, a bare ten minutes walk from
where he lived in police quarters at Regency Street.

As Hardcastle alighted from his cab, Marriott stepped across and raised his hat.

‘Good evening, sir. Bad business.’

‘It’s this damned war, Marriott,’ grumbled Hardcastle. ‘The whole bloody world’s gone mad.’ He glanced at the body, a groundsheet-covered mound upon which the
snow was lightly falling. The constable’s helmet lay nearby, a poignant reminder of what had occurred. ‘Who is he?’

‘Robert Crispin, sir, PC 550A, attached to Rochester Row.’

Hardcastle grunted. ‘Commissioner been informed?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘Mr Hudson telephoned him the minute word came in.’

Sir Edward Henry – himself the victim of a shooting in 1912 by one Albert Bowes who had been refused a tram-driver’s licence – had ordered a telephone line to be run from
Paddington Green police station to his home in Kensington in order that he could be contacted at any time of the day or night. And any failure immediately to inform him of the murder of a police
officer would undoubtedly result in a very uncomfortable interview for several people. Starting with the superintendent of the man’s division.

‘What’s known about this, Marriott?’ Holding his umbrella aloft, Hardcastle put his other hand in his pocket and stared around at the murder scene. There was a taxi, behind the
wheel of which its driver occasionally blew on his mitten-clad hands, and several policemen hunched beneath their capes. Beside them stood Detective Sergeant Wood and Detective Constables Henry
Catto and Fred Wilmot, umbrellas raised, coat collars turned up.

One or two lights were on in the surrounding houses, and from one a man was leaning out of a window trying to see why there was such a commotion in the usually quiet Westminster backwater.

‘It was witnessed by the cabbie, sir’ – Marriott nodded towards the waiting taxi – ‘and a Mrs Isabel Plowman.’ He pointed at the nearest house. ‘She
lives there.’

‘We’d better have a chat with her then. In the meantime, get someone to arrange the removal of Crispin’s body to Horseferry Road mortuary. And tell them to advise Dr Spilsbury
that I’ll be wanting him for the post-mortem.’ Hardcastle glanced across at Wilmot and Catto. ‘Well, don’t just stand there. Get knocking on doors and find out if anyone
heard or saw anything. And start with him up there.’ He pointed at the man in the window. ‘Shouldn’t have needed telling,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t know what the
Job’s coming to.’

A maid showed the two detectives into the sitting room. Isabel Plowman was seated by the fire, warming her hands. She was an attractive young woman, probably no more than
twenty-five, and Hardcastle judged by her elegant appearance and the richness of the furnishings that she had substantial means.

Her black evening robe, a combination of soft satin and ninon, was just short enough to reveal a trim ankle and a glacé kid court shoe with an embroidered heel. A black evening cloak with
a fur collar had been thrown carelessly over a nearby chair; a pair of long gloves, a feathered hat and a handbag lay beside it.

‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, ma’am, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’

Mrs Plowman cast a coquettishly appraising glance at Charles Marriott before returning her gaze to Hardcastle. ‘What a dreadful business, Inspector. I don’t know what the
world’s coming to,’ she said, more or less echoing Hardcastle’s own thoughts when he had arrived at the scene of PC Crispin’s murder. She rose to her feet and gave the
bell-pull a brief tug. Moments later the maid reappeared. ‘Mary, get these officers some whisky. I’m sure they need something to keep the cold out on a night like this. You look
absolutely frozen, gentlemen,’ she added, returning her gaze to the two detectives.

‘Very kind of you, ma’am,’ murmured Hardcastle.

‘Do sit down, gentlemen.’ Isabel Plowman indicated a settee with a wave of her hand, before resuming her own seat beside the fire. The maid turned to a side table and began to pour
the drinks.

‘Perhaps you would tell me exactly what you saw, Mrs Plowman.’ Hardcastle glanced at Marriott to make sure that he had his pocket book out, ready to take notes.

The woman waited until the maid had handed the two detectives their whisky and left the room, closing the door behind her.

‘I’d sent out for a taxi just before six to take me to Rules for supper with Charles Napier . . .’ Mrs Plowman began.

‘And who is this Mr Napier, ma’am?’ interrupted Hardcastle.

‘A gentleman friend, Inspector.’ Isabel Plowman raised her eyebrows slightly, as though Hardcastle’s question was an irrelevant and unnecessary intrusion into her private life.
But then she felt impelled to explain. ‘My husband Edward was shot down and killed over Lille last year, in the opening stages of the war. He was a major in the Royal Flying Corps, you
see.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am,’ murmured Hardcastle, and left a suitable pause after those brief words of condolence. ‘However, you say you were going to supper
with this here Mr Napier . . .’

‘Yes, and then we were going on to the Gaiety to see Tonight’s The Night at eight o’clock. It has George Grossmith and Leslie Henson in it, you know. I’m told
it’s very good.’ Mrs Plowman gave a gay little laugh.

Hardcastle was not greatly interested in the play Mrs Plowman was going to see, or for that matter who was in it. ‘Perhaps you’d get to the point of this business, ma’am, if
you’d be so kind.’

‘Yes, I’m so sorry, Inspector.’ The woman became serious again. ‘Here am I prattling on when one of your colleagues is lying dead outside. Well, the cab arrived, but as
we were leaving, the driver told me that he’d seen a man on the portico of the house next door to this one. So I told him to stop the moment we saw a policeman, which we did in Barton Street,
I think it was. I told the policeman what my driver had seen, and he got into the cab and we drove him back here.’

‘What happened next, Mrs Plowman?’ prompted Marriott, looking up from his notes.

‘The man was still there and the policeman called on him to come down. But whoever he was, he had a gun, because the next thing that happened was that I heard what sounded like two shots
and the policeman fell to the ground.’

‘Did you catch sight of the man on the portico, Mrs Plowman? Can you describe him?’ asked Marriott.

‘Just a dark figure, that’s all.’ Mrs Plowman looked apologetic. ‘It was the cab driver who saw more of him.’

‘Did you see the going of this man?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘No, I’m afraid not, Inspector. I was too concerned about the policeman. I tried to do what I could for him, but to no avail. He was already dead.’

‘Have you had medical training then, ma’am?’ asked Hardcastle sharply, unhappy at the thought that an amateur had made such a decision. ‘I mean, didn’t you think of
calling a doctor?’

‘There was no point. As I said, the policeman was already dead, Inspector. I’m a part-time VAD at Charing Cross Hospital, and I’m afraid I know death when I see it.’
Isabel Plowman stared sadly at the flickering flames of the fire before looking at Hardcastle again. ‘And I’ve seen it all too often of late. Anyway, I sent the cab driver to get help
and he came back a few minutes later with another policeman.’

Hardcastle and Marriott stood up. ‘Thank you, ma’am. And thank you for the whisky. Most welcome. I’ll have an officer take a statement from you shortly.’ Hardcastle
pulled out his watch, glanced at it and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket. ‘I reckon you’ll have missed the theatre,’ he said.

Isabel Plowman gave Hardcastle a wan smile. ‘I’ve already sent a message to Charles saying that I shan’t be there, Inspector,’ she said.

As the two detectives returned to the street, PC Crispin’s body was being loaded into a police van.

‘Wood,’ said Hardcastle, beckoning to the other sergeant. ‘Get in there and take a statement from Mrs Plowman, and while you’re about it, get an address for this Charles
Napier. I’ll need to talk to him.’

‘Napier, sir?’ queried Wood.

‘He’s the chap Mrs Plowman was supposed to be going to the theatre with.’

‘What can Napier tell us, sir?’ asked Marriott as Wood departed. He could not see that Mrs Plowman’s supper companion would have anything to contribute.

‘Shan’t know till we ask him, shall we?’ said Hardcastle curtly. ‘In the meantime, we’ll have a chat with this cabbie.’

The cab driver was reading a copy of the Star that he had spread across his steering wheel. He glanced up as Hardcastle approached.

‘It’s too cold to hang about out here, so we’ll use the back of your cab for a chat,’ said Hardcastle, and waited until the driver had joined him and Marriott in the
passenger compartment. ‘Now then, tell me what happened. And we’ll start with your name.’

‘Grimes, guv’nor. Albert Grimes.’

‘Right then, Mr Grimes. Go on.’

‘I come here to pick up the lady, guv’nor.’

‘How did you know she wanted picking up, eh?’ Hardcastle, a stickler for detail, always made sure he got all the relevant information.

‘Her maid come out and give me a shout.’

‘Where was this?’

‘Great Peter Street. Poor little bitch must’ve been waiting a while. Fair frozen to the marrow, she was. Anyhow, she ’ops in the back of me cab and I come round ’ere.
Well the lady comes out almost straight off. “Rules, cabbie,” she says, and then asks me if I knows it, all hoity-toity. I told ’er I’d been a licensed ’ackney
carriage driver nigh on twenty year, horse and motor, and knows the Smoke like the back of me ’and. And I certainly knows ’ow to get to the oldest restaurant in London. It’s in
Maiden Lane, see, guv’nor, off of the Strand.’

‘I’m sure you’re very good at your job, Mr Grimes, but can we get on with it?’

‘Oh, yeah, right.’ Grimes took out a voluminous red handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. ‘Well, just as we was pulling away, I caught a glimpse of this geezer standing up
there.’

‘Where exactly?’ asked Hardcastle.

The cabbie extended a forefinger and pointed at the portico of the house next door to Mrs Plowman’s. ‘’Ere, lady, I says, there’s some bloke up there. Is that your
’ouse? No, she says, but stop when you sees a policeman. So I rounded the corner into Barton Street and saw this copper straight off. The upshot was we took him back to Cowley Street and I
pointed out where I’d seen this geezer. An’ he was still there an’ all. So this copper what I’d picked up gives ’im a shout, like, to come down. The next thing that
’appens is that the shooting starts, and the copper goes down.’

‘Where did this man go after that?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘Don’t ask me, guv’nor. Soon as the bullets started flying, I was down on the ground next to me cab. Bert Grimes knows when to take care of ’isself, I can tell
yer.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Well, like I said, I only caught a glim of ’im, but he was all in dark clobber, see. I was lucky to ’ave seen ’im at all, I s’pose.’

‘And did you see him when you first drove into Cowley Street?’

‘Nah! I was looking for the ’ouse number, see. I never looked up, but when I was turning, after I’d picked up the lady, I spots ’im.’

‘Then what happened?’ asked Marriott, looking up from his pocket book. ‘After the shooting.’

The cabbie switched his gaze to Hardcastle’s sergeant. ‘When I got up, the lady was kneeling down by the copper, trying to do something for ’im, I s’pose. She said she
was a nurse.’ Grimes emitted a coarse cackle. ‘Wouldn’t mind ’aving ’er nurse me, I can tell yer. Anyhow, she said as how to get in me cab and go and find another
copper and bring him back here quick.’

‘Say anything else, did she?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘Yeah, she said the copper had snuffed it. I had to go as far as Victoria Street before I found another rozzer an’ all.’ Grimes sniffed and wiped the back of his woollen mitten
across his nose. ‘Is that it, then, guv’nor?’ he asked, pulling out his watch. ‘I must’ve lost a few bob ’anging about ’ere waiting for you.’

‘You’d’ve been here forever if this man had shot you instead of my policeman,’ said Hardcastle without any show of sympathy. ‘And the answer’s no. One of my
sergeants will be here shortly to take a statement from you.’

And with that Hardcastle and Marriott left Albert Grimes muttering to himself about the unfairness of the world.

‘Looks like Crispin disturbed a burglar, sir,’ said Marriott.

‘That’s what I was thinking,’ said Hardcastle, ‘but I’m not in the habit of counting my chickens before they’re hatched. There might be more to this than
meets the eye.’

‘What now, then, sir?’ asked Marriott.

‘Back to the house. From what our Mr Grimes said, it’s possible that the maid saw something when she went out to find a cab for Mrs Plowman.’

At the front door of Isabel Plowman’s house they met DS Wood.

‘All done, Wood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘All right. Take a statement from Grimes the cabbie, and don’t forget to get his badge number and plate number. He reckoned he saw this man, but he hasn’t got any idea what he
looked like.’ Hardcastle pointed his umbrella at the figures of Henry Catto and Fred Wilmot, who were sheltering in the porch of a nearby house and stamping their feet in a vain attempt to
keep them warm. ‘Have they finished knocking on doors, Wood?’

‘Yes, sir. No one saw or heard a thing,’ said Wood, ‘except for the man leaning out of the window. He said he was in his sitting room, reading, when he heard the shots, but by
the time he got to the window it was all over. He didn’t see anyone running away, just the PC lying there with Mrs Plowman leaning over him.’

‘Well, it’s no good them standing there. Tell them to get up on that portico where this cove was spotted, Wood. See if they can find anything. Cartridge cases in particular.’
And with that Hardcastle knocked on Mrs Plowman’s front door once again.

‘The mistress is still in the drawing room, sir,’ said the maid.

‘As a matter of fact, it’s you I want to speak to, lass, but I’d better have a word with the lady of the house first.’

Isabel Plowman was still warming herself in front of the fire, but now she had a glass of champagne in her hand. ‘Oh, Inspector, you’re back again.’

‘Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I’d like a word with your maid if that’s all right.’

‘Certainly, Inspector. Do you want to talk to her in here?’

‘No, ma’am, the kitchen’ll do fine, thank you all the same.’ Hardcastle had interviewed servants before and knew that they were likely to speak more openly in the absence
of their employer.

‘Well if you’re sure,’ said Mrs Plowman, ‘but tell her to make you a cup of tea, or give you another glass of whisky, whichever you fancy.’

Hardcastle and Marriott descended the back stairs from the entrance hall and into the huge, stone-flagged kitchen. Set into one wall was a
cast-iron range, and adjacent to it a large wooden dresser; beside it a tall stand held a selection of iron saucepans and cooking pots. Beneath a window giving on to the basement area was a sink
flanked by wooden draining boards. Through an open door on the far side of the room, Hardcastle glimpsed a clothes wringer.

‘Well, now, lass, you’re Mary, is that right?’ said the DDI. Taking off his overcoat, he settled himself on a wooden chair near the kitchen range. He held his hands towards the
heat and then rubbed them together vigorously.

‘Yes, sir.’ The girl was a pretty little thing, no more than eighteen. Her blonde hair, piled high on her head, was surmounted by a frilly lace cap. ‘Would you like a cup of
tea, sir?’ she asked Hardcastle, at the same time shooting a glance and a shy smile at the handsome Sergeant Marriott.

‘That would be very welcome, lass.’ Hardcastle waited while the girl filled the heavy wrought-iron kettle and placed it on the range. ‘What’s your surname,
Mary?’

‘Hutchings, sir.’ Mary busied herself setting out bone china cups and saucers.

‘Don’t bother with all that, Mary, the kitchen stuff’ll do for us policemen.’

‘The mistress wouldn’t like that, sir,’ said Mary, and continued to place the best china on the scrubbed table.

‘And where d’you live, Mary?’

The girl looked at him in surprise. ‘Well, here, sir,’ she said. ‘I live in.’

‘Yes, but where do your people live?’

‘Oh, I see. Dorset, sir, but I come up here to get work. Three years ago now.’

‘And who else is on the staff, Mary?’

‘It’s only me now, sir. There used to be a butler working here – Mr Timms he was called – and Gerald the footman, but they went off to the war. Poor Mr Timms got hisself
killed at . . . I think it was at some place called Ee-press.’ Clearly having trouble pronouncing Ypres, Mary stumbled over the word. ‘But the mistress never got no one else in, not
after the master was killed last year. Not that she’d’ve got no one, not with the war an’ all.’

‘Mrs Plowman said she sent you out just before six o’clock to find a taxi, Mary. Is that right? And for goodness’ sake sit down, girl.’

Mary smiled as she sat down opposite Hardcastle. ‘Yes, sir. The mistress was going out to dinner with Mr Napier and then on to the theatre. I had to go all the way to Great Peter Street
and I was blue with the cold by the time I found one, what with the snow an’ all.’

‘Now then, when you left the house or when you returned in the cab, did you see anything, or hear anything unusual? Did you, for example, see anyone on the portico of the house next
door?’

‘No, sir.’ The girl stood up and spooned tea leaves into a large brown pot before pouring water on to them. ‘It’s terrible, ain’t it, sir, that poor policeman
getting killed?’

‘Yes, it is, Mary. Tell me, what d’you know about this Mr Napier?’

‘He’s a gentleman friend of the mistress, sir.’

‘And has he called at the house ever?’

The maid paused, as if unsure whether to answer.

‘This is just between you, me and Sergeant Marriott here, Mary,’ coaxed Hardcastle.

‘Two or three times, sir,’ said the girl hesitantly. ‘He sometimes calls to take the mistress to supper or the theatre.’

‘I wonder why he didn’t call this evening,’ mused Hardcastle. ‘Any other gentlemen callers, were there?’

‘Not that I can recall, sir,’ said the maid and turned away to pour the tea.

But Hardcastle did not believe he. . .